


Hidden In Plain Sight

by la_victoire



Series: Hidden In Plain Sight [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hidden in plain sight series, Molcroft, Mollcroft, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is manipulative and a Bit Not Good, Mycroft' mind palace, Mycroft's Umbrella, Ninja!Anthea, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, This is NOT your typical romance, mycroft/molly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 102,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victoire/pseuds/la_victoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU of Reichenbach fall and Series 3, in which Mycroft didn’t know Sherlock had survived the fall. When Molly had helped Sherlock plan his fall from the roof of St Bart’s, she hadn’t factored in his brother or that she did matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Are Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss etc etc. I do not make money out of this, no copyright enfringements intended. 
> 
> Author's Note:  
> Please remember this is an AU of Reichenbach fall and series 3, in the fact that Mycroft didn’t help Sherlock plan his fall. I am not a doctor or a forensic pathologist, please bear this in mind. Unbeta’d at the moment, but I will look back on it once I’ve got some sleep. I’m not sure if I’m happy with this, but it’s the first thing I’ve written in a long time, so I encourage constructive criticism.  
> Please also note that this story very much starts out as a study of Molly, and Mycroft comes into it slowly. This is NOT a Sherlock and Molly story. Rated G right now, may go up later.
> 
> Chapter name taken from the song ‘You Are Not’, by Young Guns.
> 
>  
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

 

_‘But you can see me’, Sherlock said, confused._

_Molly swallowed._

_‘I don’t count’._

 

Molly shivered as the door to the mortuary opened, to reveal a bulky man with a solemn face.

 

‘Dr Hooper?’, he said, looking down at his clipboard. Molly attempted a small smile, which she knew had fallen flat the minute she had tried to push up the sides of her mouth.

 

‘Ye- Yes, Hi? That’s me’, she stammered, her voice croaking. Her heart was thumping hard, high in her throat, as she signed the document he handed her.

 

‘Male, early thirties, 6 feet one, suicide?’, the man confirmed, his face grim.

 

Molly cleared her throat. ‘Yes, that’s the one’.

 

The man gathered the signing sheet, handed her the documents, and nodded slightly at Molly before leaving swiftly. The door rattled behind him, squealing like trapped mouse. Molly waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade, and then turned to the corpse behind her on the table.

 

_Sherlock._

 

She swallowed hard, mentally slapping herself hard.

 

Not Sherlock. The body of a man that looked a lot, too much, like the consulting detective that she was essentially putting her entire future on hold for. She could possibly lose her job for this. She could end up in jail for this. She could lose her life, as she knew it, for Sherlock.

 

Her reason for doing this, she knew, was pathetic. Even by her standards- after all, she had once thought wearing a tight dress would wrestle Sherlock out of his sex-is-boring cocoon.

 

_I want him to see me._

 

The man in front of her was silent- as corpses generally were- but almost unnaturally so. Breathing through her teeth, molly slipped on the latex gloves and inspected the man’s head, finally seeing the deep, bloody bruise on the side of his head. Molly moved her hand away, closing her eyes for a second. The burning feeling behind her eyeballs did not wear away.

 

_I will not cry._

 

Deep breath. She could do this, she knew she could. She’d had had to do much more difficult things in her life, and for much worst reasons than this. This act- this single, terrible, horrifying act- would save several lives. With this thought in mind, Molly quickly, but carefully, set to work.

She gently smoothed down the man’s dark hair, teasing the curls to make them more obvious. Then, pulling out the bag of clothes Sherlock had given her, she quickly stripped the man of his clothes and shoes, changing him into the soft, clean shirt and expensive trousers. From the bottom of the bag, she pulled out a duplicate of Sherlock’s coat and the dark blue scarf. As she placed them on the body, dressing the poor dead man up like a mannequin, she wondered how Sherlock had managed to source the definitely not cheap Belstaff coat (which she knew for a fact had been discontinued a long time ago) at such short notice.

 

Stepping back almost in time of the ticking of the morgue clock, she looked back at her work. Her eyes stayed dry. She understood what needed to be done. Molly pulled up the white sheet to cover the body, and walked away from it as clinically and professionally as she could muster. She sat down at her desk and looked at the documents the delivery man had brought her, before boldly labelled them to be incinerated. She turned on her computer, and brought up the morgue documents.

 

_Sherlock Holmes,_ Molly typed, the words stark against the screen. She looked at the calendar behind her shoulder. She looked at the body on the table.

 

She looked at the computer screen.

 

_Date and time of death: Sunday 15 th of January 2012, 3.15pm._

_\-------------------_

 

When the time came, Molly felt like machine; following a routine that had been engrained into her, tapped out into her system so she would do it without thought or emotion.

Molly accepted the various tramps Sherlock put in front of her, and proceeded to dress them in stolen stethoscopes and crisp, white lab coats.

 

‘My homeless network’, Sherlock said, his face blank. ‘This entire plan rests on them’.

 

_And me_ , Molly thought, practically hearing it echoed by Sherlock’s own thoughts. The only time she could ever say she had read them. Molly nodded. She felted as if her heart was being ripped to miniscule shreds.

 

‘Everything is ready’, Molly promised, nodded at the plastic blue mattress that was being inflated in front of them. Sherlock’s phone rang for the fourth time, a call from John, as always.  

 

Molly swallowed hard. ‘Will anyone else know about what you’re do- what’s really…that you won’t  really be….gone?’, she said, stumbling over her words.

Sherlock’s eyes stared into her, rather than at her, as always.

 

‘No’, he said.

 

_No one important can know._

 

Molly can practically hear it, and with a stab in her stomach, she knows. Sherlock may truly have thought, truly believed in all his so-called sociopathic glory, that she counted. But she didn’t. At the end of the day, even Moriarty had given up on her as a bad job, as someone Sherlock could never actually care about.

Her stomach twisted. She knows her face must be a mess of emotion, the type Sherlock can’t stand or care to decipher.

But now she finally understood what she knew all along really- she could never have him. Sherlock, achingly beautiful and brilliant, was a rainbow of light that shone through shards of crystal. No matter how much she fought it, he would always see through her, untouched.

 

Blinking back tears, she smiles brightly at Sherlock. She leaned up to reach his arm, and raised herself to her toes. Kissed his cheek.

 

‘Please be careful’, Molly whispered. Without looking at him, she walked away towards the building, back to her place in the plan.

 

She tried not to wonder whether he was looking at her as she walked.

 

\-------------

 

The funeral fell on a disgustingly bright and sunny day, mocking the occasion and the very essence of Sherlock.

 

Molly had worn the black dress that had embarrassed her at John and Sherlock’s christmas party, covered with a wool black, baggy jumper and with black tights underneath. Feeling guilty, she had covered up the whole ensemble with a black coat, so she was the only one who really knew what she was wearing. Inwardly, the dress was a tribute to Sherlock and a private celebration to the success of the plan. But to the outside world, she was the wilted flower she had always been.

 

Before the funeral, Molly had been worried about attending, feeling like an intruder into a private world of emotions that did not belong to her.

 

But as the casket was put down into the grave, and the headstone was erected, Molly grieved. She felt racked with pain, worry, sadness to the point of being numb. Finally, she allowed her tears to fall, cascading down in a stream of bitterness. She grieved the fact that Sherlock would have to leave the only world in which he had actually fitted in. She cried for John, who looked so impossibly small and lost, crouching in the mud and just staring, staring at the dirt over not-Sherlock’s grave.

 

But she can’t tell them, and it’s a burden she will have to keep, and pray that they will all forgive her when the time came. The tears came harder and fast, as if they would choke her.

 

_What if Sherlock doesn’t come back? What if this is how it ends?_

 

As if the terror of these thoughts had been heard out loud, Molly looked up, suddenly very aware someone was looking back.

 

_‘How…how did he recognise her by…not her face?’ Molly had asked the tall, stern-looking man._

_He looked at her, reading her life story, before walking away._

_She hadn’t known silence could say so much, and so little._

\--------

 

Molly watched as Sherlock bent over her bathroom sink, hair wet and cold, ginger clinging to the previously dark curls. It suited him and didn’t, somehow at the same time.

 

‘Shouldn’t you tell someone other than me?’, Molly pressed, sitting on the bathtub. ‘I mean, its fine, if you want to- but what if you need help? I can’t…I’m not too good with….this’.

 

Molly gestured with her arms at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at her through his wet hair, blue-grey eyes questioning her.

 

‘But Molly’, he said. ‘You’re doing it already.’

 

The words raised a spark in her chest. She blinked and swallowed, dampening it down. She would not do this to herself again.

 

‘You know what I mean’, she said helplessly. Suddenly, she remembered the tall man that had come to the morgue to see Irene Adler’s body.

 

‘The man’, she started. Sherlock groaned, bored with the topic. ‘With Irene’s body from the morgue…the one with the umbrella…do you, you know, know him?’

 

Sherlock suddenly stood up, water and dye flying in the air as he grabbed Molly by the arm, pulling her off the bathtub.

 

‘Ow!’, she screeched. ‘Don’t- what?’

 

‘He can’t know.’, Sherlock said quietly. ‘He's the most dangerous man you'd ever know. Stay away from him'.

 

Molly pulled back her arm, rubbing it.

 

‘You didn’t need to grab me so hard’, Molly said, thinking. ‘But- who is he? I kn-know that its none of my business, but…who?’

 

Sherlock went back to the sink.

 

‘My archenemy’, he said, simply.

 

\-------

 

The burn of the sun was spreading on her back. Mrs Hudson’s sniffles penetrated the warm air, as she tried to pull John away from not-Sherlock’s grave. The funeral was over-finally.

But, as John stood up and walked away without a word, blue-grey eyes stared at her, stern and fierce. Molly immediately thought of Sherlock, except- this wasn’t Sherlock.

 

The man with the umbrella, from the morgue, the one with the silence, looked exactly as elegant and refined as he had that day but somehow seemed crumpled underneath. His face had lines and creases that had not been there on that day, his skin even paler if possible. He stared at Molly, with his piercing blue-grey eyes that looked uncomfortably like Sherlock’s, and Molly realised why The Plan had had to be so _planned._

 

The man looked Molly up, and then down, as if he could see the celebratory dress underneath the layers _. As if he could see her._

 

He raised an eyebrow, and Molly’s heart stopped.

 


	2. That A Ghost Should Be So Practical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly realises that Mycroft isn't a blunt instrument, but rather a sharp dagger. Mycroft seems to think Molly knows something he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also do not own Google, Lou Brealey or Mycroft's umbrella.
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello again! I come bearing a rapid continuation to the 'Hidden In Plain Sight' series. Believe me, i've shocked myself at how fast i produced (still, it took me about 5 hours to write) this, after saying how crap i am at updating.  
> Anyway, again- i am not a forensic pathologist or a doctor. I am also not an assassin or the British government. 
> 
> I just want to point out here, for anyone that doesn't know, an Oyster card is a sort of ticket you use to use buses, trains or the London Underground here in (obviously) London. Just pointing it out for those that don't know. 
> 
> Also, a 'lift' is a British word for 'elevator'.
> 
> Finally, this is also unbeta'd. There is no one to blame for that but myself.
> 
> Title of the chapter taken from the Florence and the Machine song 'If Only for a Night'.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

_He’s the most dangerous man you’d ever know. Stay away from him._

 

Despite Molly’s fears, she did not see or hear from the man for the next two months. She didn’t know if he knew whether Sherlock was alive, or if he just knew she knew _something._ Brittle and freezing January turned into breezy but still freezing March. Thick wool jumpers and scarves became cotton shirts and cardigans.

 

The blood on the pavement of St Bart’s became a ghost of yesterday, the newspapers reporting Sherlock’s death littering the streets and filling bins. Today, Sherlock was just another fraud, another human being that had paid for the attention of the press. The thought made Molly sick, but there was nothing she could do.

 

So she would do as she was instructed by Sherlock, like a machine programmed by its master. She would carry on as the wilting flower that the world knew her as. Nobody would ever know- or believe- what she had done, the single most bravest and bizarre thing she’d ever done. It made sense to her that, the one time she truly knew she had done something extraordinary; it would be hidden far behind an opaque screen, never to be heard of.

 

She was okay with this, really she was- she had accepted a long time ago that she would be the type of person that never garnered attention, not like Sherlock. She was comfortable being one of the supporting casts to the main act. It’s why she would work with Sherlock. It’s why she worked with people that were dead.

 

Today she was taking inventory, a necessary but boring job that needed to be done every week or so. She hadn’t slept so well last night, too stuck in her own thoughts and fears; her once cosy and warm flat felt stark and empty now since Sherlock had left to hunt Moriarty’s network, leaving her with the daily fears of being found out and caught.

 

After Sherlock’s funeral, Molly had been suspended from work for 2 weeks, for releasing his ‘body’ before a proper autopsy could be done. Afterwards, a quiet reprimand, a note in her folder and she was back to work as usual. After all, Molly was so naïve and timid, how could her mistake have been anything else?

 

As she went through folders of misplaced documents, Molly put her iPod in its dock, allowing herself to listen to the dulcet tones of Florence and The Machine as she carried on with her important, but still very boring task. She hummed and tapped her feet to the drums as she worked. It wrapped her in a brief shelter of calm, her mind full of numbers and words that could not hurt her.

 

Abruptly, her music suddenly stopped. She froze with her back to the door, turning around and looking confusedly at her iPod in its dock. A chill filled her chest, her blood suddenly pumping fast. Her eyes quickly noticed a presence at the door, and the tension dried away.

 

‘Alice’, Molly said, letting out a puff of air as she visibly relaxed. She felt confused. Why had she suddenly felt so…afraid?

 

Alice tapped out whatever it was on her ever present Blackberry, and looked up from the door. She just looked at Molly.

 

‘Do you need help with anything?’, Molly asked, used to  unnerving glaze.

 

Alice blinked and then spoke. ‘Yes’, she said. ‘Mr Brandon’s family have come to pick up his body. Do you want me to fill in the forms or do you want to do it?’

 

‘N-no, it’s okay, I’ll do it’, Molly said quickly. Waving at the mess of papers behind her, she looked warily at Alice. ‘Could you….?’

 

Alice stared at her, and her Blackberry pinged.

 

‘Oh’, she said, her nose scrunched with distaste, the motion disappearing as quickly as it came. ‘Of course.’

 

Molly left her to it. Alice, at 30 years old, so sleek and poised, was very different from the assistants she was used to. Alice had quickly replaced Liz, her last assistant who quit suddenly due to a family incident. Secretly, Molly was (guiltily) thankful for the replacement- despite her obsession with the expensive-looking Blackberry phone, Alice was organised and meticulous in her work in a way Liz never managed. Alice had an uncanny knack of knowing what she needed before Molly herself did, the item in her hand before she could ask for it. So she didn’t mind Alice’s constant phone use during work in spite of the strict ‘no mobile during work’ policy. She didn’t even mind Alice’s slightly anti-social and very quiet demeanour, happy to work in peaceful silence.

 

Molly quickly filled in Mr Brandon’s forms, and said goodbye to his sobbing daughter. The daughter’s husband hadn’t looked as upset, Molly noted. Common scenario in her work. He had seemed more interested in Molly than the body of his dead father-in-law, his brown eyes lingering on her body. It had creeped her out, and she made sure to swiftly walk the couple out, ignoring the husband.

 

As the clock clicked onto 6 o’clock, she could not be more thankful to be able to go home. A quick goodbye to Alice, who had made short work of the papers she had been sorting for hours, and she was out into the wet, dark evening.

 

As she fiddled with her bag to find her Oyster card for the tube, she saw a shiny black car pull up on the pavement, before its front lights went out. She walked past it, unable to see through the windows in the dark, feeling odd. She thought nothing more of it, and walked to the tube station towards home.

 

\-------

 

Three days later, Molly woke up a horrible sense of foreboding. She couldn’t understand why today, of all days, she didn’t want to go to work, the thought putting goose pimples on her arms. But after pulling on her favourite pink cardigan, and a quick breakfast of jam on toast, she felt more energised and the feeling in her stomach receded.

 

She bunched herself further into her coat as she reached work, eager to just get inside the building, away from the cold. As she reached the entrance, she noticed the car from three days ago was in front of her again. The man in the driver’s seat was steadfastedly ignoring her in a way that made her feel like he was actually watching her every movement. Goose pimples back on her arms, Molly walked rapidly inside.

Inside the lab, Alice was on Molly’s computer, reading email.

 

‘Morning’, Molly said, as cheerfully as she could muster. Alice nodded in her direction, but did not move or speak otherwise.

 

Slowly but surely, Molly dismissed her own thoughts, and got to work.

\----

 

When lunchtime arrived, Molly could not make herself eat. Alice asked to go home for lunch, which Molly absentmindedly allowed, and she left still clicking busily on her mobile.

 

Knowing she really should eat, Molly went into her office and pulled out a tuna sandwich she had packed for herself this morning. Feeling as if she was chewing through cardboard, Molly fired up the computer, and checked the morgue documents for the week. She finished her sandwich in a few quick bites, and noted down the bodies checked out so far this week. As she got to Mr Brandon’s sheet, she went through the details carefully, nodded as she went through her mental checklist of things that needed to be done and what had been done. Everything was as it should be.

 

When she got to his family details though, Molly froze on the spot.

 

_Next in kin: Miss Sophia Brandon, collecting on 12 th March, Monday. _

 

The woman on the form was listed as unmarried. Molly racked through her memories of the day, clearly remembering a slight, sobbing woman who had introduced her to her husband, Stephan Baskov. The man that had spent the entire time staring at her.

 

Perhaps it was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. St Bart’s wasn’t always good at updating details, and a simple fact as an unmentioned spouse could have slipped through.

 

Resting her hands on the computer keyboard, Molly clicked on Google and began to type in her email server. Molly started typing, but then stopped before finishing the word ‘Outlook’, and stared at the Google suggestions under the search box.

 

_Search box: Outlook_

_Google suggestions:_

_ Out for a while, Molly still inside. _

_Outlook._

_Outlook 365._

 

Molly wasn’t sure if she was really seeing what she thought she saw. Confused, she deleted the search, and typed in a random word:

 

_Search box: Loo_

_Google suggestions:_

_ Look out for baskov _

_Look_

_Lou Brealey_

  


She suddenly felt ill, her mind buzzing with questions.

_Baskov? Surely not Stephan Baskov? Who is writing this? Why on google- I don’t understand who…_

_Alice_ _._

Alice. The name drummed in her head, too loud and painful. But it didn’t make sense. Was she contacting someone? In that case, who uses google suggestions to contact people- surely they have email? The use of her name in the first message made Molly’s blood run cold.

 

It can’t have been Alice. But there was no one else it could have been. This computer never moved from her office, and so only she and Alice really had any access to it. Fearing something but not knowing what it was, Molly on the side of the web taskbar to see the internet history.

 

_You have 14 more days._

_There must be some evidence._

_Adding security detail._

_Adding level 3 surveillance._

_Car is outside. Leave in 2 minutes, 15 seconds._

_Do make sure Dr Hooper arrives home after work._

_Baskov matches the criteria. DO NOT LEAVE DR HOOPER ALONE._

Molly stood up abruptly, shutting down the computer. Her heartbeats quickened, her movements clumsy with panic and fear. Grabbing her coat and bag and slamming her way through the office door into the corridor outside the lab, Molly tried to process what she had just read.

 

Someone was watching her. She didn’t know who, but she did know there was only one significant reason anyone would be watching her now. Stopping in front of the lift, she pressed the button for the doors two, three, four times, not sure whether to go for the stairs instead.

 

She didn’t know where she was running to- she could not go home. Whoever it was knew where she lived, where she worked….with no way of contacting Sherlock, who had not left even a location, she was going to have to deal with this on her own.

 

The lift doors opened, and Molly sighed in relief until she saw who was in it.

 

Stephen Baskov smiled toothily at Molly, his blonde hair shining in the harsh clinical lights, his height towering above her own.

 

‘Miss Molly’, he said, in a clear accent. ‘From your face, I see you’re smarter than boss thought you were’.

 

Boss?

 

Without realising what she was doing, Molly gripped hard onto the handle of her bag, and swung it hard at Baskov’s chest, the highest part of him she could reach. As his eyes widened in shock, his hands came to pull a gun out of his pocket.

 

She was going to die. This is what you get for associating with mad men, she knew. But she would not go with a fight, without showing that there was more to her than the timid mouse everyone saw.

 

With all the strength she had, Molly swung her bag at Baskov’s arm, smacking the gun out of his hand before he could fire. But as she ran for the gun, he pulled her back towards him, gathering her by her waist, before turning her around and putting his hands on her neck.

 

‘Too smart’, he rumbled, his deep voice thunder-like in Molly’s ears.

 

She couldn’t move or speak, his weight bearing down on her like a ton of debris and rubble after a hurricane. She refused to cry. She would not die seeming weak, she would not, and she would not.

 

She couldn’t breathe anymore, the weight of Baskov’s large hands squeezing her trachea, squeezing the life out of her. Molly gasped.

 

As she started to lose consciousness, the weight from her neck suddenly disappeared, and the air was filled with a man’s screams. She slipped to the floor, the hard ceramic pressed roughly to her head.

 

I forgot to feed Toby, she thought suddenly, as the screams above her continued.

 

Molly blinked, and then thought no more.

 

\-------

 

The air in her mouth was stale and oddly dusty.

Molly coughed and opened her eyes, before closing them again. A bright white light seeped through her eyelids.

 

Opening her eyes again, she looked at the ceiling, a stark, clinical white. Her throat hurt like hell, swallowing causing a terrible burning feeling. Gathering her scattered brain, she remembered what had happened.

 

‘Baskov!’, she gasped, clutching her throat. She appeared to be lying on a hospital bed.

 

‘Baskov has been taken care of’, said a voice from her right. Molly choked on her own spit as she turned her head too fast, pain exploded in rapid bursts in her head.

 

Then she saw the man sitting in the black plastic chair next to her bed, his crisp trousers creasing delicately as he crossed his legs. An umbrella was leaning on the chair.

 

‘You’, she croaked.

 

The man did not look surprised. Uncrossing his legs, he leaned towards her.

 

‘I see you did not suffer any brain injury from the asphyxiation’, He said, firmly. ‘How fortunate’.

 

_He’s the most dangerous man you’d ever know._

Molly coughed again, trying to rise above the pain. The man gave her an approving look, before his face became as expressionless as before.

 

‘Did you send him to kill me?’, Molly choked out, feeling her throat. No severe damage, she noted. Just hurt like hell.

 

The man looked incredulous.

 

‘I assure you’, he said, looking down at his umbrella. ‘If that had been my intention, you would be long dead by now. I’m afraid I did not send Baskov’.

 

He leaned at her again, looked carefully at her face.

 

‘No, I want you alive’, he said, after a silence. ‘It’s intriguing who did send Baskov, and _why_. I find you….a very interesting read, Molly Hooper.’

 

Molly flinched at the way he said her name. She began to struggle in the bed, realising her hands were bound. She looked up at the man, panic clear on her face. The man seemed amused at her attempts to get free.

 

‘I mean no harm’, he promised. ‘My assistant insisted on binding you down after your actions at the mortuary. You are stronger than you look’.

 

Molly stopped struggling, and gulped. This man, who ever he was, was seemed to think she was more than she actually was.

 

‘I want to go home’, she whispered, her voice broken. ‘I want to-want to go home. I don’t know who you are. I’m just a pathologist, I do-don’t have anything you want. Need. God, I don’t know’.

 

She started crying, her breaths coming out in spurts, punctuated by sobs. What had she ever done to deserve this treatment? All her life, she had been a good person, a simple person- she did not deserve to be beaten up by a giant man, and then kidnapped by a sinister looking one.

 

The man cleared his throat, his voice gentler than before.

 

‘You will go home. But I need to know’, he said, his voice odd. ‘Is my brother alive?’

 

_My brother-_

_Sherlock._

‘What?’, she said, shocked. The man stood up, his face a carefully crafted blank canvas, but even she could see the hope. ‘Your brother?’.

 

‘Mycroft Holmes. Is Sherlock alive?’, he pressed, his voice fierce.

 

_He can’t know._

‘Sherlock is dead’, Molly croaked, averting her eyes. A silence filled the room as neither of them moved. The pain of her throat made it hard for her to see him properly, to look up at him.

 

Mycroft sighed, his breath ragged with something Molly could not name. She felt as though she had failed a very important exam.

 

‘You are lying’.

 

Molly closed her eyes.

 

\-------

 

Molly woke up with a gasp, breathing hard and sweating profusely. She looked around, bewildered. The bright, clinical white was replaced by the comforting cream and pink of her bedroom.

 

She was in her bed, at home.

 

Molly ran a hand through her hair, still breathing hard.

 

_Was it all just a dream?_

 

She couldn’t be sure. She felt as if she had walked through hot coal, her body sore and whining in protest to her every move. Her mind flew in every direction, looking around for clues.

 

Mycroft Holmes. Apparently Sherlock’s brother. The name itself sounded unreal, something out of a very twisted dream. Surely, if Sherlock had a brother, he would’ve mentioned that to her, to someone?

 

It was a dream. Gulping hard, Molly tried to not think about the sinking feeling in her stomach. She looked at her alarm clock. 6.30am- time for work. She stood up, swaying slightly, and padded towards her bathroom.

 

Ten minutes later, Molly was still standing in her bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror above her sink.

 

Large purple bruises littered her neck like flowers, large hand prints visible against the pale of her skin.

 

\---------

 

Molly almost ran towards St Bart’s, rushing out of the tube station at record breaking speed. As she came to the entrance, she forced herself to calm down, and breath.

 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She waved hello to Laura, the receptionist and a notorious gossip. Laura waved back as normal. Like nothing had happened at Bart’s just yesterday.

 

What the hell is going on?

 

Molly walked slowly to her office, stripped of her coat and bag. Putting on a lab coat and tying back her hair, she walked to the morgue.

 

Alice was standing over a body, writing something on a clipboard. She saw Molly, and stopped writing. Waiting.

 

Molly opened and closed her mouth. She breathed deeply.

 

‘Your name is not Alice’, she said, with confidence she didn’t feel.

Not-Alice stayed silent.

 

‘No’, she said, finally.

 

‘Right’, Molly said. Not-Alice’s face remained blank. ‘What is your name?’

 

Not-Alice seemed to think about this. Her Blackberry pinged, and she read it.  

 

‘Anthea’, she said after a while.

 

Molly blinked, knowing when she’s being lied to. ‘Really?’

 

‘No’, said Not-Alice/ Not-Anthea, and smirked. Molly just stared at her, both women standing still. Molly felt as though oddly as though she was being assessed.

 

‘You know’, Not-Alice said, still smirking, phone nowhere in sight. ‘Dead people are boring’.

 

Inside, Molly was screaming.

_How dare this woman, who won’t even tell me her bloody-_

 

Right. Two can play this game. Molly bristled, and put herself right in front of Anthea’s (for that was Molly’s name for her now) face.

 

‘Too bad’, Molly said, voice sharp and strong, shocking herself. Where had that come from? ‘We’ve got 4 coming in today, and you’re going to be assisting with all of them. No protests’.

 

Anthea’s phone pinged again. She didn’t check it. Molly smiled.

 

\----------------

 

It was five months after Sherlock’s fall, and three months since her attack, when Molly next saw Mycroft Holmes. He stood outside the sleek black car that stood, one a week, outside St Bart’s.  His grey three-piece suit immaculate and achingly sophisticated. His long black umbrella hung from his elbow, his face blank as usual.

 

Molly swallowed hard and walked past him, to the entrance of the hospital.

 

‘You might as well come in’, Molly said, disappearing inside.

 

Mycroft followed her in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i promised Mycroft would be more involved in this chapter, but when i started writing it, i felt like he needed more building up to. Now that i know where i'm going with this story, i can truly promise his role in this will increase. 
> 
> Also, for the google thing, i tried to print screen and make it more authentic, but the formatting didn't work. Sorry!
> 
> Anyway, i know this was a fast update, but that was mainly due to the unexpected day off and my stupid plotbunnies. Seeing as i'm busy again from tomorrow, i can't promise another fast update, but i will try to update again within the next week. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this story, reviews inspire updates a lot!


	3. I Turned 'Round And There You Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's POV. His confrontation with Molly about Sherlock's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also do not own Google, Lou Brealey or Mycroft's umbrella.
> 
>  
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello again! i have tried to keep to my promise, and so i have come bearing another chapter of the 'Hidden in Plain Sight' series. I do really love writing this, but i have to say that this chapter was both unexpected in ways, and totally scared me. For once, the majority of it (all of it, accept the little part at the end, which is Molly's POV) is in Mycroft's POV.
> 
> Let me tell you this. I have a condition. Its called 'Mycroft-is-my-absolute-favourite-character-on-Sherlock-and-i'm-afraid-of-ruining-him-with-my-horrible-writing' Syndrome. I hadn't intended to writing from his POV, but somehow this chapter wrote itself. I'm really sorry for this chapter, because its more of a filler chapter,and doesn't have a hell of a lot of progression, but it does show you Mycroft's side of things. I hope that's okay. 
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is also unbeta'd, but i will look through it again. Also, i have limited knowledge of politics beyond the normal 'being a British person and not Sherlock means i do know who the prime minister is' thing. I have nothing against our prime minister, no matter what this chapter indicates. 
> 
> Molly's background in this was subconsciously lifted from maybe_amanda's Sherlock/Molly fanfiction series 'Sustain Stories'. I didn't realise this until my proof reading of this chapter. Sorry, i hope this okay, and i totally recommend her story if you like the ship.
> 
> Finally, this chapter is titled from the lyrics of Birdy's 'White Winter Hymnal' song. Because apparently i'm naming every chapter from what i'm listening as i write it. 
> 
> EDIT: TeaPott from fanfiction.net has let me know that all of Mycroft's cars are Jaguars, not Bentleys. Sorry for this mistake, i've corrected wherever i found the mistake, hopefully i haven't missed any.
> 
> EDIT: Adelind has pointed out that i changed Baskov's name to Baskar in this chapter. This has now been corrected.
> 
> And thus ends the author ramble.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

Deduction, despite Sherlock’s many and profuse claims, is not an art. At least, not to Mycroft.

 

No; Mycroft had realised at a very young age that deduction was neither for the weary and the weak, nor for those substantially afraid of power. At the end of the day, at ten years of age, Mycroft had surmised that the ability to deduce was a power in itself, and suitable for only his brother and himself (and even then, Mycroft often wondered whether Sherlock was truly suited to it).

 

Deduction, for Mycroft, was a political war, where the smallest detail was capable of disastrous consequences. Mycroft’s employ eventually came down to his ability to find the weakness in the powerful and the possessing, and then to either bury these weaknesses for Queen and Country, or to reveal them, like a magician who could pull a tablecloth from under the teapot without breaking it.

 

Deduction for Sherlock, however, was a study in human error. And so here were the two correct- albeit slightly skewed- definitions of deduction, and as Mycroft firmly believed, deduction is definitely not an art.

 

Mycroft had often exasperated at Sherlock’s definition of deduction, at human error. He ridiculed it, tried to convince Sherlock that making a job of it was foolish to the extreme. Human error was, eventually, _too human._ Too normal. Something that Sherlock and Mycroft were not, and never did- for Sherlock to stand too close to it, Mycroft had predicted, would mean that some day they too would be riddled with erroneous decisions of the like of mere _humans._

 

Eventually he succumbed. Mycroft was nothing, if not correct. Moriarty descended, Moriarty pulled the wool over Mycroft’s eyes, and Moriarty took his baby….his little- _his brother_ with him. Never to come back.

 

_Stop. This instant._

Mycroft stood out St Barthlomew’s hospital, leaning casually against his black Jaguar, eyes constantly scanning.

 

_You are not an emotional man._

 

As time went on, and Sherlock became colder in the ground, Mycroft was coming around again and again to Sherlock’s definition of deduction. A study in human error. In this case, in the study of his brother and his passing, Mycroft would forfeit his ideals and focus on Sherlock’s.

_Look for their weaknesses. Find the evidence. Elementary._

 

Yet, in the one chess piece unaccounted for in the game of Moriarty’s final problem, Dr Molly Hooper ( **read:** Mary Magdalene Hooper, age: 32, education: primary and secondary education in a staunch catholic school, choose her career due to witnessing her mother’s death) was proving difficult to understand.

 

However, that was not to say she did not have weaknesses. In the months that Mycroft had had Molly watched and scrutinised by both his formidable assistant ( **read:** currently acting as Dr Hooper’s mortuary assistant) and every CCTV Mycroft possessed, he had found nothing to suggest that she was hiding anything dire to her, or anyone else’s, existence.

 

Dr Hooper was scared of dying alone, so she worked with death, often by herself. Dr Hooper was scared of the dark. However, she did not turn on her house lights when she crept in late every night from work. Dr Hooper disliked pink, therefore she insisted on wearing pink in some form or shape, every day.

 

 **Read:** Dr Hooper does not make sense at all. She is a contradiction, an ablation. Mycroft would feel ashamed of being outdone by such a normal looking woman, had he not realised just how _abnormal_ she was.

 

Mycroft was, in essence, a disaster prevention strategy. As a result, he saw disaster everyday- embarrassing, tragic, and stupid ( **read:** Sherlock is correct in this one aspect only. Humans are _dull)_ – nevertheless they were disasters.

 

At Sherlock’s funeral, Mycroft realised- with a bolt of lightening and a shot of whisky- that Dr Hooper was in this business too. However, whatever disaster she had prevented, was personal.

 

 **Read:** Dr Hooper has no relatives, limited friendships. Relatives: Mother and father dead. One younger sister, lives in Guildford, Surrey, distant and unconcerned with Dr Hooper. Friends: Mike Stamford- negative. John Watson- strong negative. Meera, Elizabeth, her previous assistants- negative. Other friends, none in distress, none in need.

 

_Sherlock._

 

So Mycroft knew. He and Sherlock had succumbed to human error, but Dr Hooper had not. To feel as if his heart had been seized with joy and abject fear was exhilarating and sinister to the extreme.

 

 **Location:** Sherlock’s funeral. Molly Hooper’s facial expressions do not coinceded with those of bereavement ( **Read:** either Molly Hooper is glad to be rid of Sherlock, which is credible due to his dismal behaviour towards the pathologist, or Molly Hooper places her grief elsewhere. Another facial expression tinges the grief. Potentially, guilt? Strong positive).

 

 **Time:** end of Sherlock’s funeral. Molly Hooper’s facial expression’s reveal she is wearing…something inappropriate ( **read:** Molly Hooper currently does not have a boyfriend, so not lingerie. Clothing could coincede with expression of guilt. Memory: lower hem of dress- barely seen under coat- suggests a party dress, a celebration dress. Note: either deductive skills are decreasing with age, or _something is wrong about this picture_ ).

 

Molly Hooper was celebrating- she was wearing a dress not intended for a birthday or an event, but a success.

 

Mycroft kept his face blank, and plotted. Inside, his brain was failing him.

 

_Was Sherlock still alive. But why would he not tell Mycroft?_

 

The reasons for that, Mycroft knew with a throb in his stomach, were many and varied. If his instincts were correct, Mycroft would not blame Sherlock.

 

_Please let Sherlock be alive._

_I am not an emotional man._

As time went on, the evidence grew- and fell limp. Molly Hooper received no suspicious communications, no unexpected visitors. His assistant updated him on the mundane, complaining about her boredom. Molly Hooper, it seemed, was as innocent and blameless as no one else in the entire country. No crime record, no outstanding awards or signs of intelligence other than her prestigious place of work, no strange internet history other than her morbid interest in cats, no interesting connections in the world.

 

_Why, in the name of queen and country, was Sherlock even acquainted with this woman? Surely any other person could have dealt with his desire to obtain human body parts?_

 

However, his opinion changed with the introduction of Stephan Baskov. His assistant, over time, became more and more convinced this man was dangerous, and after Dr Hooper of all people ( **read:** Mycroft suspects Anthea has become unprofessionally attached to Dr Hooper’s well being. Strange).

 

Anthea was right. Baskov attacked out of the blue.

 

And somehow, Molly Hooper prevailed.

 

Read: Sherlock was a genius. He had known that from his brother’s very birth. But this scaled past that. Mycroft was the smart one. But even Mycroft could concede defeat. _Because now he understood._

                                                                                                                   

Molly Hooper was perfect, the ultimate confidante. She was not unintelligent, was well placed with her job at the mortuary, and in love with Sherlock (read: Sherlock, if he is alive, is shameless).

But the success of the plan (read: if there is a plan, and Mycroft isn’t grieving in the most inefficient manner) lay in the fact that Dr Molly Hooper was ignored.

 

The brilliance of this, unfortunately, made Mycroft hope. The proverbial eighth earthly sin, and for a reason.

 

Mycroft hoped, and that’s where his nightmares lay. Meetings with the Prime minister. Tea with the queen. Seminars, confrontations, interrogations and emergency cobra setting, ‘code reds’.  And yet, every night in his office or in his empty house, he stayed awake with the hairs at neck on end, rousing him from sleep with a horror in stomach.

 

_What if Sherlock was alive? What if he’s hurt, but alive._

 

The ‘what if’ scenario, was killing him. Sherlock may have been – may still be- difficult, a nuisance, a taint on his clean and shiny armour, but he was his baby-his little- _his brother._ He still remembers the way Sherlock used to look up to him, proud of his big brother as he fought the world for him, and the day that had all soured.

 

Sherlock may have – may still- hate him. Mycroft never would. Therefore, he had to know.

 

He stood outside St Bartholomew’s hospital, leaning on his Jaguar, weaponised umbrella in hand. Not that he thought he would need it.

 

Eventually, slowly, after what felt like twenty business meetings with the prime minister- Molly Hooper finally stumbled in front of him, bumbling towards the building and stopping stock still when she saw him.

 

( **Read:** Molly Hooper is afraid of him. Yet she has not run away. Another reason she does not make sense. Interesting.)

 

‘You might as well come in’, she said slowly, and then uncharacteristically, she turned her back on him.

 

Mycroft took a few moments to evaluate the back of Molly Hooper’s head.

 

 **Read:** Her hair is in a pony tail, hurriedly haired and done this morning. Not trying to impress, not trying to be deviant or defiant. Her walk is steady, unlike before. Not defiant, but resistant. Unsure. Her back is arched slightly- she had a crick in her neck, did not sleep well. Predicted a confrontation by myself or someone similar. Has resigned to the fact. Not unintelligent at all.

 

Mycroft followed the back of Molly Hooper’s head and shortly found himself within the mortuary, the one he had not entered since Ms Adler’s supposed death **(read:** evidence now suggests she is not. Sherlock would have helped her. Further evidence for the ability to appear dead, but not be dead).

 

He quickly scanned the room, and found Anthea staring at him with a hidden smirk.

 

‘Good morning, sir’, she said, almost musically. Taunting him, for some reason. Smug at being right. Next to her, Molly Hooper bristled.

 

‘I know she’s not, um’, Molly Hooper said, facing Mycroft. ‘I know she’s not Alice. Anthea. Um, my assistant. She’s yours?’

 

Mycroft watched her carefully as she spoke, her insecurity in her own thoughts seeming interesting somehow.

 

‘Yes’, Mycroft said. There were not securities in lying, and he was here for a reason. ‘I’m afraid I placed her here. For your protection’.

 

He wondered if that would ensure her. He suspected it did not. Molly Hooper paled, and began fiddling with a petri dish on the laboratory table.

 

‘I…I wanted to talk properly, which is why I brought you here’, Molly said, her voice suspiciously calm. ‘I don’t have anything you want. So I want you to leave me alone.’

 

She looked at Anthea. ‘And I want you to leave as well. So, um. I can get a new laboratory assistant. Not that you weren’t good.’

 

To Mycroft’s surprise, Anthea smiled sweetly, and then said the longest sentence he had ever heard her speak.

 

‘Sir’, Anthea said. ‘I feel Dr Hooper may have become uncharacteristically sadistic under my watch. Once you broke my cover, she has insisted on me attended her more uninteresting sections of work’.

 

 **Read:** Molly Hooper does appear to have a backbone.

 

‘I did not!’, Dr Hooper suddenly squeaks, and then bristles again. ‘She was…I’m not sadistic!’

 

‘I assure, Dr Hooper, I don’t think you are. Anthea tends to be a harsh judge of character, which is often a side effect of her field of work’, Mycroft said, evenly. ‘While I am sure Anthea is no longer needed at your side, I can not assume you are entirely innocent’.

 

Dr Hooper’s face crumpled, and she attempted to straighten it.

 

‘Who are you?’, Dr Hooper said, her face pale. ‘you’re not a part of the police or, or…I haven’t done anything!’.

 

‘Very astute of you, Dr Hooper. I am indeed not from the police. Certainly not. However, I do believe you are holding information.’

 

Dr Hooper looked down at the table. ‘He never mentioned you, you know. Sherlock, I mean. Never. You don’t even look much like him. How do I know you are who you say you are?’

 

Mycroft stared at her, his fascade crumbling. He realised that there was a possibility Sherlock cared more about this woman than he ever cared about him, but he would not let this effect his judgement of her.

 

‘My name is Mycroft Holmes’, he said, firmly. ‘I am a minor government official, but you will not find my name mentioned anywhere, as I think you have already found. I am his elder brother by seven years, and of this I have proof, should you need it’.

 

Molly Hooper looked at him.

 

‘I d-don’t want to offend you. I didn’t mean that!’, she said. ‘I just want you to know that I don’t know anything about Sherlock, I mean. He never told me anything at all. So I don’t have what you’re looking for’.

 

She looked carefully into Mycroft’s eyes.

 

‘Sherlock’s dead’, she said, softly, her voice strained and odd, as if it was caught in barbed wire.

 

Mycroft’s throat closed up, reaching for his umbrella and gripped hard to it. He stayed silent, looking down at the umbrella.

 

_I am not an emotional man._

‘There are….gaps in the paper work,’ Mycroft finally said, and Molly stared at him, incredulous. ‘No autopsy. Sudden release. Your first reprimand.’

 

Mycroft straightened, forcing the bile in his empty stomach to stay just there. ‘ You see, I think you are lying’.

 

Tears gathered in Molly’s eyes.

 

‘He was a friend’, she said, her voice strangled with tears. ‘I was the only one on call. I c-couldn’t do it. So I sent him home. I didn’t want John to suffer anymore. Please, just believe me, I don’t want to fight anymore.’

 

Tears fell down her face, but her eyes remained on Mycroft. Her face was the essence of weeks and months of stress and struggle. Of loneliness that he, unfortunately, could identify with.

 

_Caring is not an advantage. But look at us both._

His mask of geniality was becoming increasingly harder to uphold. The storm of thoughts and fears were barricading on him, and the floor seemed a comforting place to fall to.

 

‘I am not fighting you-‘, Mycroft started, but Dr Hooper interrupted.

 

‘ _You’re not_?’, she said, sarcasm in her face, her face blotchy and red with tears. ‘ _You’re not_? Y-you kidnapped me! I was hurt and you locked me in a padded white room!’

 

‘The room was not padded, but in a hospital that provided us with some discretion for your injuries’, Mycroft said, insistently. ‘And if you care to look up the definition of ‘kidnapping’, you would find that what I did does not fill the description’.

 

Molly stared at him. ‘Maybe you are Sherlock’s brother’.

 

‘Alas’, Mycroft said, bitterly. ‘It was a dubious pleasure, believe me’.

 

They stood silently, pathologist and politician.

 

‘I- I’m sorry’, Molly said. ‘It must be hard for you. I w-wish I had more to tell you.’

 

Mycroft breathed. ‘I am not an emotional man. But he’s….he’s Sherlock’.

 

Mycroft breathed shakily, unable to stand, and leaned against the table. He knew what this must look like.

 

Another human error. The error of caring.

 

An arm lightly touched his shoulder, and Mycroft saw Anthea (who had until that point been silent).

 

‘Sir, I think maybe you have outstretched yourself’, she said, quietly. ‘You have a meeting in an hour, so perhaps you should get going’.

 

 **Read:** He has failed. Vulnerability does not suit him, like it does Molly Hooper. Time to recoop. He does not know what to think.

 

Mycroft stretched upwards and stood tall, his previous break in his guard gone to dust. He would be the ultimate professional. For queen and country. He found that molly was staring at him, a look of misery on her face.

 

‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Dr Hooper’, he said formally. ‘However, please do not think this is over. Anthea and I will leave you now to your work.’

 

_Was Sherlock really dead? I am deluding myself?_

‘I’m sorry’, Molly Hooper called out, as Mycroft walked away.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

That night, Molly cried herself to sleep. The loneliness of a secret was unbearable, the burden of it heavier than anything else she could think of.

 

The darkness of her room loomed over her, giving her the privacy of secret tears. Still, Molly muffled her cries in her pillow, curling into a ball.

 

Suddenly, a bright flash of light shone out from the back of her bed, a trilling sound filling the air. Molly shot out of the bed, squeaking, as she scrunched up her eyes in the sudden light.

 

At the foot of her bed, her mobile sat on her desk, indicating a text message.

 

_Who would be texting her at 3am in the morning?_

 

Her eyes tired, the thought of work tomorrow making her nauseous, Molly looked at her phone.

 

**[Incoming text message]:**

**Oh, for God’s sake, just tell him. _SH_**

****

For the first time in weeks, Molly laughed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, hope you liked this chapter! I know, i know, nothing much progressed, but the next chapter will have a lot more of that. Not sure when i'll update next, but again hopefully in a week.
> 
> As always, please read and review, they really help with the plotbunnies. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments so far, you guys are so very lovely!


	4. It's Where My Demons Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Molly has something to tell Mycroft. If only she could get hold of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also do not own Kellogg’s, the parliament or Mycroft's umbrella.
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello everyone! I have to say, I’ve been good so far with the updating of this story (I say, modestly), although that could change. I’m going to be very busy soon, so the updates could slow down. I meant to save this chapter to post a little later in the week, but obviously, I have impulsive behaviour issues.  
> I would like everyone to note, please, I have nothing against, again, the british government. Not even the rise in university tuition fees; I’m sure its all for a reason.  
> Also, on a good note, I would like to say this chapter IS beta’d, and by the lovely Adalind, who has been very supportive and prompt. This chapter would not have been any good without her.  
> In addition, this chapter brings my story up to above 10K words, which I find astounding, as it seems to have happened in under two weeks. Its now longer than my dissertation! 
> 
> Anyways, as always, the title of this chapter is from a song I was listening to as I was writing it- in this case, it is ‘Demons’ by Imagine Dragons. It’s a beautiful, beautiful song, and I highly recommend you listen to it some point.
> 
> This chapter is a lot more light hearted than the previous one, and contains my attempts at humour (be warned), but there is also some angst.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

_Oh, for God’s sake, just tell him._

This, Molly later found out, was easier said than done when it came to Mycroft Holmes.

 

But that night, that night when she realised she didn’t have to be alone with her caged heart anymore, she slept peacefully for the first time since Sherlock’s fall. She cried, properly and freely, no less burdened than before, but feeling all the better for not being the only one that was so. She knew this meant that she was selfish and ungrateful, but Molly didn’t care. Months of sneakily checking up on John Watson in Tesco from a far away aisle, and seeing his downtrodden stance, his stress-lined face heavy with depression wore away at her guards- which had not been strong to start with.

 

She knew nothing about Mycroft Holmes, except that he was Sherlock’s older brother, and someone with a shady role in the British government. Molly felt herself shying at her lack of political knowledge which, really, only extended to the name of the prime minister and the political parties, and maybe a bit about the sudden rise in university student loans.  Molly didn’t know how he would take the news, or if he would even believe her, after her previous refusals to say the words.

_Sherlock is alive. Very much so._

 

The truth was, what this all really meant to her was, that she really didn’t care. Mr Holmes could yell at her, have her locked away (please, please don’t let him do that), hug her, k-kiss her- it all came down to the fact that _she wouldn’t be alone amore._

 

Nights of crying herself to sleep, curling up with Toby the cat, smelling the sweet and sour stench of secrecy from under her nose as she lay in the dark, doing nothing. Sherlock could be on the other side of the planet, for all Molly knew, and this made her heart heavy. He was alone too somewhere, as alone as her, without John for the first time in years. She wondered if he thought about her, about anyone. About his own brother, whom he had left full of grief and guilt about something she didn’t understand. Pretending to be fine in traumatic circumstances was something anyone could do, but Mycroft Holmes, Molly felt, had the air of someone who had practiced for this particular role his entire life. He was heartbroken, she knew- she could _feel_ it vibrating off him in waves of sorrow.

 

As Molly lay in her bed that night, after the confrontation and after Sherlock’s derisive but heartfelt text, she wondered what it must be like for Mycroft. To have a brother so like him, and yet so, so…..bitter. Sherlock couldn’t have been easy to be an example for growing up, but what did she know? She knew nothing of their relationship, except that it couldn’t have been the best, as Sherlock obviously felt he couldn’t let his _own brother_ help him even in circumstances as difficult as beating Moriarty at his own game.

 

She had lied to Mr Holmes when she had said that Sherlock never talked about him. That she couldn’t see him in Sherlock. The truth was, it was obvious for anyone to see what Sherlock meant to him, and for that reason, _Sherlock was in him._ Their eyes had the same sharp and knowledgeable tinge, the same conflict in knowing they were not, would not, be normal.

 

The next day, Molly felt happier and lighter, even though she knew none of this was over. She would still need to be secretive, stay away from John, Mrs Hudson, and Greg Lestrade when she could.

 

But Sherlock is alive.

 

She could say it out loud to one person.

 

‘Sherlock is alive’, Molly said confidently to her mirror, nodding at her own appearance. Her eyes still had dark circles, and her face was still too pale. But today, today Molly Hooper could get back a bit of her old life. Before Jim from IT who was James Moriarty from Hell, before deception became second skin to her and lies dripped off her tongue like honey.

 

\------------------

 

Molly walked hurriedly to work the next day, wrapping her baby blue scarf tighter around her neck. She didn’t know what she was rushing for, what she was expecting to happen, really.

 

As she entered the hospital, dumped her bag and coat in her office, and walked quickly to the lab, Molly suddenly became stock still.

 

The lab was empty, void of Anthea or anyone else. Molly felt like smacking herself, the gesture already happening inside her stomach.

 

_How could she have forgotten?_

 

Anthea wasn’t here. Of all times to tell the woman to _go away_ , she had to do it just before she could actually give her the news she had been placed in Molly’s lab for, in the first place. The lab felt strangely unsafe, as if Anthea had been a barrier, a protection from something Molly didn’t understand. In the months after her attack by Baskov, Molly had felt conflicted and struggled with the idea that someone out there wanted to harm her, when she herself had never done anything to hurt anyone, not on purpose. The whole situation was still blurry to her, but when Anthea had been here, the blurriness hadn’t mattered so much. Would she be safe without her?

 

As the day went on, Molly dove into her work, refusing to think about the implications. The mortuary stayed silent, and Molly felt as alive as one of the corpses on her tables. Molly refused to think about Anthea, who was funny and loud, even in her silence and constant use of sarcasm when she did speak.

 

She hadn’t really thought about it, when she had been afraid and angry at Mycroft, that Anthea was her only link to the man himself. She had no mobile number, no address, and no particular place of work.

 

She wondered, briefly, if she walked into the Parliament and asked for Mycroft Holmes, whether that would help.

 

Probably not.

 

_Sherlock is alive._

 

‘What do I do now?’, Molly asked Mrs Marple, staring down at the female corpse on the autopsy table. ‘I d-don’t even know who he is, not really. He said he was a government official. Um, a minor one. I don’t even know what that _means_.’

 

Mrs Marple looked particularly pale under the harsh lights of the mortuary, the Y incision revealing her breast plate.

 

‘I….I don’t think he’s a _minor_ anything’, Molly said, to herself. ‘I m-mean. He has a driver. And a Jaguar. And an assistant that wears shoes I could never afford. He carries a brolly everywhere, I think.’

 

Mr Holmes’ umbrella, Molly was sure, was his version of Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. The day wore on, and Molly grew more anxious.

 

It seemed the burden was hers for now, and hers only.

 

\---------------------

_Baskov wrapped his arms tightly around Molly’s throat, eliciting a choking sound from her mouth. She felt the oxygen draining from her lungs, and her lips burned, as if they had been branded by her would-be killer’s glaze. Just as she was about to lose consciousness, Molly looked behind her killer, and saw Mycroft Holmes staring back at her, his eyes icy and cold. He did nothing._

 

Molly screamed out loud and shot upright on her bed, breathing hard.

 

It was a dream.

 

Relief filled her as she cried, her head still buzzing like a hive of bees. She placed her hand on her throat, remembering the purple bruises which, even though they had faded, felt branded on her as if they were new.

 

She wondered if she would ever know where Sherlock was, or if he would come back, or why she had been attacked. She didn’t know why, but she felt like all of it was related, and that made her panic worse.

 

For not the first time, her thoughts returned to the older brother, to the mysterious Mycroft Holmes.

 

Closing her eyes, Molly willed herself back to sleep.

\---------------------------

 

Two weeks later, and Mycroft Holmes had still not contacted Molly. She didn’t know why she had felt he would, but if their last confrontation was anything to go by, Mr Holmes still believed that Sherlock’s death was not what it seemed to be.

 

_But please do not think this is over._

 

This wasn’t over, it really wasn’t. Sherlock was alive, only Molly knew, and Sherlock wanted his brother to know now, too. But now, Molly was desperate.

 

Every day the anticipation grew, her eyes ready to perceive an image of a Jaguar parked in front of St Bart’s, to see Anthea leaning against an autopsy table.

 

Still, nothing happened. Sherlock did not try to contact her again. Mycroft Holmes seemed to have given up on her.

 

Really, she shouldn’t have been surprised, disappointed.

 

It was the story of her life.

\--------------------

 

Seven months, 2 weeks and 3 days after Sherlock’s fall, Molly was standing in the cereal aisle of Tesco, frowning at the price of a box of Kellogg’s Special K porridge. She put it back on the shelf, unsure of its benefits anyway. She knew she needed to lose weight- the stress of the last seven months and a bit had really got to her, and she knew she had eaten more than was necessarily good for her waist line. Despite all that happened, she was determined to move on with her life. She would find a new boyfriend, she would. A good one, one that wasn’t a psychopath or mean, someone would deserve her. Not the other way around. She was still working on her self-esteem, really.

 

‘Molly?’

 

Molly looked up from the cereal shelf, her eyes wide. John Watson stood in front of her, a weary look in his eyes. His oatmeal jumper seemed particularly dreary somehow, sagged along with his shoulders. His eyes were dark and tired. His shopping trolley held only a single small pint of milk.

 

‘John!’, Molly squeaked. ‘I d-didn’t see you! How are you?’.

 

She rushed forward, awkwardly hugging him, narrowly missing tripping over his trolley wheels. John hugged her back warmly, if slightly distantly. He smelled comfortingly like biscuits and tea.

 

Molly hadn’t realised how much she had missed John- human contact in general, really- and realised he hadn’t answered her question.

 

‘I haven’t seen you in a while’, he said, almost conversationally, his tired eyes moving slowly over her form.

 

Molly laughed, the sound fake and shrill. Inside, she felt like dying from the guilt.

 

‘I’ve been b-busy, y-you know, work…’, she said, uncomfortably. ‘Dead bodies don’t autopsy themselves. Oh god, sorry!’

 

At the word ‘dead’, John’s face had turned pale, and his leg shook oddly, as if he was about to fall. Molly moved forward, just in case, but he held out a hand.

 

‘Sorry’, he said, not really meaning it. ‘It just plays up sometimes, you know how it is’.

 

‘Yeah’, Molly said. The guilt was killing her. She looked down into her own shopping basket.

 

John looked at her oddly.

 

‘Have you been avoiding me?’, he said, suddenly. His voice calm. Molly automatically went red, her face flaming with guilt and embarrassment.

 

‘No!’, she said, knowing how unconvincing it sounded. ‘I…I just didn’t….I was going to visit Mrs Hudson soon. Um, ask for her gingerbread recipe. It’s…good’.

 

They both went silent, people bustling past them, the overheard speaker ringing out around them. Molly’s heart was thumping hard, the cage around it tightening until if felt like it would tear her apart.

 

_Sherlock is alive, John._

 

Tears filled her eyes. John looked as dead as he believed Sherlock was, and this hurt her more than she understood, pulling and ripping at something inside. Guilt rose, filling her, as if it would drown her.

 

‘I’m sorry’, she said, not for the first time. She remembered Mycroft Holmes. ‘I just c-couldn’t…’

 

_I just couldn’t face lying anymore._

To make it worse, John looked like he understood.

 

‘It’s okay’, he said, his face expressionless. ‘Please stop…stop crying’.

 

Molly choked her sob, and tried to smile.

 

‘Most people have stopped talking to me’, John said, nonchalantly. ‘A lot of people don’t know what to believe. So I understand.’

 

‘I believe in Sherlock’, Molly said. They both winced at Sherlock’s name. ‘I should’ve….what about the Detective Inspector? Um, Lestrade? Hasn’t h-he…?’

 

John smiled sadly.

 

‘I think he doesn’t know what to think’, John said. ‘Not sure I do either’.

 

Molly wiped her tears, and looked John in the face.

 

‘Sherlock would never lie to you, John’, Molly said, firmly. ‘H-he cared about you. Like no one else’.

 

John looked down. Molly knew, somehow, that he was willing himself not to cry. Then, like an electric shock, something occurred to Molly.

 

‘W-What, um, what about his brother?’, Molly said, trying to seem casual. John’s head snapped up.

 

‘How do you know him?’ John demanded, his voice loud and strong, unlike before. A woman opposite them looked around at them, with a surprised expression. ‘Has he been…has he contacted you?’

 

Molly frowned, confused. There was something not quite right here, she knew, John’s tone vibrating in her brain. Anger, bitterness, misery. That all made sense, but not the tone of something beyond anger, which she could feel with the understanding of someone who had believed a psychopath to be an innocent lover.

 

Molly lied. Even to herself, and she didn’t know why.

 

‘No’, Molly said, as calmly as she could. ‘I just…I saw him once. With Sherlock, ages ago. I just wondered whether he might’ve, you know, come to see you’.

 

John stared at her for a while, tiredly, like she was a puzzle he didn’t understand.

 

‘No,’ John said, bitterly. ‘And I hope I never see him again’.

 

‘But…’, Molly said, unsure of what was really going on, now. ‘Couldn’t he have helped? With Sherlock’s reputation, I mean. Sherlock, um, said he was involved in government work-‘

 

‘Mycroft is the British government’, John spat out. Molly flinched, and John calmed down. ‘Sorry. He…he didn’t save Sherlock before. There’s no point now.’

 

Confusion filled Molly, the bitterness in John’s tone ringing alarm bells in her head. Something didn’t fit, and she knew there was something, of course there was something, that she hadn’t been told. But she had more important things to do first.

 

‘D-do you know how I could find him?’ she asked, shyly, not wanting to anger John further. John looked at her incredulously. ‘Sherlock left some things in the mortuary- nothing important- but…someone should have them, I mean. I-I can’t keep them.’

 

Molly was lying through her teeth, and she wondered if John could see the obviousness of the lie. She hated this, wished it would all stop, that the lies would stop, but right now this was all she knew.

 

Molly started to pray that John wouldn’t ask for Sherlock’s things from the lab- there wasn’t anything, really. Molly wondered quickly whether St Bart’s would notice a missing microscope, if John did ask to take them himself.

 

Surprisingly, John laughed. A small, sarcastic laugh.

 

‘Like I said, he’s Mycroft fucking Holmes’, John said, his voice dripping with disdain. ‘He is the government.’

 

Suddenly, John hugged Molly, quickly and tightly, and pushed his trolley away from her.

 

‘Just talk to one of his CCTV cameras, any one of them will do,’ John said, seriously. ‘Maybe one outside the hospital. Good luck with him. You’ll need it’.

 

‘John…’, Molly said, confused and sad, as John walked away from her.

 

John smiled.

 

‘Let me know when you go to see Mrs Hudson. I haven’t seen her in a while myself’, he said, sadly.

 

At Molly’s confused expression, John smiled.

 

‘I don’t live there anymore’, he confirmed, and walked away without a goodbye, leaving Molly by herself.

 

She noticed he hadn’t taken anything from the cereal aisle.

 

She wondered if it was possible to die of guilt.

 

\-----------------------

 

The annoying thing was that Molly didn’t know whether John was being serious. But truthfully, if he had been sarcastic, she couldn’t blame him. She was a terrible friend. She deserved to make a fool out of herself.

 

She sat, alone, in her flat all night, wondering and worrying. According to John, Sherlock’s brother was the British government. Molly didn’t know much about politics, as she had often thought before, but even she knew that a government couldn’t be contained to one person. He definitely wasn’t the prime minister- she knew that much from the Sky news channel. It did, however, explain a lot about how Sherlock had not ended up behind bars. Yet.

 

Even if he was the government, what did that have to do with CCTV cameras? Did, did he own them? Surely he can’t own every CCTV camera in England.

_Who on Earth is Mycroft Holmes?_

Molly sat at her laptop, munching on instant noodles, with Toby at her feet. Looking up Mycroft Holmes, as many times as she had tried, yielded nothing at all. Several hours later, darkness filling her room, Molly found herself on a familiar website that had nothing to with Sherlock’s brother.

 

The website was a page for a Master’s degree course in Neuroscience, at a London university. Even though she had her medical degree, which she was very proud of and had made good use of, in her opinion- she couldn’t deny her interest in a specific part of the body. She had often wondered about the brain, and she had to admit, that out of the many bodies that came to her, the ones with diseases of the brain where the ones that interested her the most. Prion diseases, neurodegeneration, immunologically privileged areas. To her, it was all interesting, and her curiosity got the best of her. Obviously, she often looked up and did her own research on the topic, using Pubmed and Medline.

 

But, at heart, Molly was definitely, really, the studious kind. She believed, she knew, that having a high interest in anything of this kind, was a thirst that could only be sated by academic and educational sources. So, no matter how much she told herself that one degree was enough, one very good and useful degree, she couldn’t help but long for this specific one.

 

The problem was in the tuition fees. That much, she supposed, she could blame on the government, without knowing much on politics. Molly did earn well, she knew she did, but with a rent as high as hers for living in central London, she didn’t have a lot saved up. The truth was, essentially, she could not afford to go back into study, even in a one year degree course.

 

Molly sighed, and clicked off the university site.

 

\-----------------

 

Two days later, Molly suddenly realised that she really didn’t have any dignity left to lose. She had a lost the little she had had left, at Sherlock’s funeral, with her party dress.

 

_Sherlock is alive._

 

By this point, Molly was desperate. She yanked off her latex gloves, dumped her pipette, and rushed outside the hospital. Outside, people walked past, casually, chatting, ambulance sirens ringing distantly somewhere far away. She knew she must look odd with her white lab coat; her hair was in disarray from running too fast.

 

Well, she supposed. There’s nothing left for it. Molly steeled herself, and hoped people weren’t watching her.

 

‘MYCROFT HOLMES!’, Molly yelled out loud. The words, as they careered out of her mouth, felt false and unpromising. On her left side, a child started crying. The mother quickly picked her child up, gave Molly a dirty look, and stalked off.

 

Molly waited a few minutes. No black, sleek car. No Anthea.

 

_This is ridiculous._

Just as Molly was about to walk gloomily back inside, she realised there was a slight whiny sound coming from above her head.

 

On the side of the St Bart’s building, just above the main entrance, were two CCTV cameras, looking in opposite directions. One had somehow turned, and was now spinning to focus on her. Molly squeaked.

 

She must be going insane.

 

_John was telling the truth._

 

Molly looked curiously at the camera, and experimentally moved to the right side of the camera. Within seconds, the whining sound was back, and the camera turned to face her. She moved even further away, around the corner of the hospital. Slowly, the other CCTV camera turned around. She felt as if she was on a spotlight.

 

Feeling morbidly excited- she knew she should be worried really, for all she knew, she was communicating with the mafia, or a perverted police officer- she ran back to the other side, in front of the entrance of the hospital. A teenage girl walked out of the entrance, and stared at her oddly. The first camera turned towards her.

 

It was like she was being flirted with, by a camera.

 

Molly couldn’t help it. Before she knew it, laughter bubbled out of her. She knew she must look like a crazed fool to everyone but herself (even to herself), but this insane turn in her life felt so comfortable, in a way it really shouldn’t. It reminded her of Sherlock, and as much as she knew it was foolish, it made her feel safe.

 

Steeling herself again, and looking around her, hoping no one was too close, she rose upwards, onto her toes.

 

‘Please’, she said, as loudly as she dared. ‘I need to speak to you. Um, when you can. P-please.’

 

\-----------------------

Molly felt foolish. She had done some very stupid things in her life, massive mistakes, but this was the first time that she felt she truly was an idiot.

 

Molly had worked the rest of the day, and nothing had happened. No Jaguar parked outside, no sarcastic assistant. The frustration in her chest grew, and Molly felt like crying with the unfairness. Finally, she could talk to someone about her, about Sherlock’s, darkest secret, unburden herself- and _she couldn’t do it._

It was unfair and cruel, it really was.

 

Evening rolled around, and Molly’s shift was done. She gathered her coat, back aching with anger and sadness. But mainly, really, loneliness. She felt empty in her stomach and her skull, the nothingness that was now her ruining her for any other feeling. As she walked out of the hospital, her hope crumbled, like a trail of breadcrumbs.

 

‘I understand I am a difficult man to contact-‘

 

Molly squeaked loudly, jumping out of her skin, and turned around to see a very tall man looming over her.

 

‘…However, I would be indebted to you if you did not attempt to use my name so ostentatiously in the general public,’ the man said, mysteriously, almost smiling down at her.

 

‘Mycroft!’, Molly squealed, before composing herself, her cheeks blushing scarlet even in the dark. ‘I-I mean, Mr Holmes…I d-didn’t see you’.

 

The cold, wet air filled Molly’s nostrils, and she breathed in deeply, trying to calm herself. Meanwhile Mycroft Holmes continued to look down at her, a look of

annoyance on his face, as if her obvious statement offended him, somehow.

 

‘Obviously’, he said, succinctly. ‘I should inform you, lest you try to harass government property again, that I am not in ownership of all CCTV cameras in England. So please, in the name of your wellbeing, I suggest you do not try that antic again’.

 

‘So that was you?’, Molly said, shocked. She didn’t really know what she was expecting. ‘I-I…I wasn’t harassing anything!’

 

Mycroft’s mouth moved oddly, as if he was suppressing a quirk.

 

‘It was mostly myself, yes’, he admitted. ‘Though I must confess, my assistant found much pleasure in…humouring you’.

 

Molly blushed. Of course he hadn’t been following her around with his cameras. That- that would be unprofessional.

 

‘I know’, Molly said, and remembered why she had called him. ‘Um’.

 

Silence followed, and Mycroft stood patiently next to his car, their reflection distorted in its shiny, dark surface. Molly stared at his umbrella. She wondered whether it was _actually_ an umbrella, since he seemed unnaturally fond of it.

 

_Sherlock is alive._

How could she, really, tell him this? Guilt and shyness filled her, as she readied herself to expect any reaction from him. How did anybody react to hearing that, someone that they very obviously loved, was not dead, as they thought? Her heart thumped hard, high in her throat, obstructing any noise from her mouth.

 

‘I assume you called me for a reason’, Mycroft prompted pleasantly. Molly saw, in his eyes, a small slice of anxiousness, as if he already knew what she wanted to say. Hoping, praying, that _it was_ what she was going to say.

 

She couldn’t deny him, any longer. It wasn’t fair to him, or to her.

 

‘I…’, Molly gulped hard, shaking. The nervousness grew in her belly, wriggling at a rapid pace. Spots filled her vision, and suddenly, her legs gave out.

 

Molly yelled out, pain hitting her as she fell. Quickly as she fell, Molly felt herself rise up, a sudden warm radiating from her upper arms, from above her. Mycroft held her gingerly by her sides, umbrella on the floor, a look of concern on his face.

 

‘I must admit, I’m not sure what happened’, Mycroft said, quickly. The concerned expression slipped off his face as fast as it had arrived. Molly stood up by herself, and he removed his arms. Molly’s arms burned, unusually, where he had been holding her before.

 

‘Are you-‘, Mycroft started.

 

‘Your brother is alive’, Molly gasped, interrupting Mycroft.  ‘Sherlock…he’s alive’.

 

Molly almost flinched, and then faltered. That was not how she was going to say it, in a rush of pain and shock, letting the nervousness to get to her. He didn’t deserve that, and she almost wished she hadn’t told him.

 

Mycroft’s normally expressionless face went through a mirage of emotions, flitting through as many as Molly could name, and some others she could not. His hands shook, and then stilled, and his face crumpled as he looked down.

 

One beat, two beats, and the man was looking up at her, expressionless again. He stood tall, looking at her, but also looking past her.

 

Molly pulled out her phone, and clicked for the text he had sent her, about two weeks ago.

 

_Oh, for God’s sake, just tell him. SH_

‘He…He sent me this. To tell you’, Molly said, quickly, pressing her small phone into his large hands. ‘He told me not to, before, I mean. You s-see, I helped him. Fake his death. That b-body….it wasn’t him. It was someone else. Um’.

 

Molly looked at Mycroft, who was still staring at her phone, as if it was some kind of lifeline. A link to his brother, who had deceived him in the cruellest way possible, and chose to tell him through the most insulting source. Molly knew it for what it was, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. Mycroft Holmes should have known Sherlock was alive from the start, and this was not how he was supposed to have found out.

 

‘I’m sorry’, Molly said, for what felt like the millionth time. ‘I didn’t want to lie. But I…I had to’.

 

Mycroft handed her back her phone, and looked at a spot behind Molly. She could almost see the cogs turning in his brain. His face held no sign of any emotion.

 

_I suppose he really is not an emotional man._

‘Thank you’, he said, abruptly. Molly breathed in hard.

 

Then, as mysteriously as he had appeared, Molly breathed out and Mycroft had already ducked into his car.

 

Then he disappeared, like a magician in a box, leaving her more alone than ever.

 

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s all for now, folks! I hope you guys liked it. As always, please read and review, they feed the plotbunnies. The next chapter should be in a week or so hopefully, but as I have a rather massive thing coming up, I may be a bit more delayed. Sorry! Also, I am shameless in this chapter. My field of study is Neuroscience, and I have done the particular degree course Molly is describing. All for a reason, though.
> 
> Until next time.


	5. When The World Is Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly may be alone with her secrets again, but she's in more trouble than she knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also do not own the yellow roses, the prime minister of England, or Mycroft and Molly’s frustration.  
> Author's Notes: Hello everyone! This is chapter 5- I feel like I’ve arrived to this chapter quite quickly. Just a few notes this time. I want to make note that I know that in the ACD books, Mycroft was one of the co-founder’s of Diogenes, but as Mycroft appears much younger in the TV series than he probably was in the books, here Mycroft is just a member of Diogenes, as opposed to being a co-founder. This is something my beta pointed out, and she was quite right to.
> 
> Secondly, this chapter was thoroughly beta’d by Adalind, who is fantastic and very enthusiastic in her beta-ing, which I appreciate, because I seem to have caught some kind of plotbunny disease, and am writing quite prolifically, which is new to me. Adalind went through this particular chapter twice, and then I went over it again two more times, so hopefully its free of mistakes- if there are any, they are my fault alone. I also plan to go back over the first 3 chapters of this story that were unbeta’d, as soon as I have time- it bugs me to think they may be full of mistakes. 
> 
> Finally, as always, this chapter was titled after the song I was listening to as I wrote it- this particular chapter is named after the lyrics of ‘Carnival of Rust’, by Poets Of The Fall. Hope you guys like this chapter!
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

That night, Molly had another nightmare. However, this time, unlike most times, she dreamed about Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock. In the dream, his eyes were abnormally bright, piercing blue, like the water far, far below the cliff they were on the edge of.

_‘Last chance, my dear’, Mycroft Holmes says, his voice rough and loud, ringing in the din of their empty surroundings. Molly is tied to a chair, and is wriggling desperately, and crying. The chair is dangerously close to the edge of the cliff._

_‘P-Please’, Molly says, her voice cracked with sobs. ‘I’m telling the truth. S-Sherlock….he is alive!’._

_Suddenly, the man looks furious, his rage vibrating until she could feel it burning on her tongue._

_‘Liar!’, Mycroft bellows, his eyes fury and dark. Molly blinks hard, focussing on Mycroft’s eyes, and all of a sudden, he isn’t Mycroft anymore._

_‘You couldn’t convince him’, says Sherlock, his eyes are furious and blue as his brother. ‘How typical of you, Molly Hooper. How remiss of me to think you could have a spine’._

_Molly wrestles against the chair, screaming when she realised how close she was to the edge of the cliff._

_‘He d-didn’t believe me!’, Molly yells, crying hard. ‘I tried…I tried.’_

_Sherlock smiles, but the smile wasn’t kind. His face contorts, his usually handsome face stretched into an unpleasant, calculating grimace._

_‘Too late, Molly Hooper’, Sherlock says, unkindly. ‘I should have known you were too weak, too timid…I should never have trusted you’._

_Molly crys freely, and forgets to struggle._

_‘I’m dead, for real this time’, Sherlock says, firmly, his face impassive. ‘You couldn’t convince my brother. When I needed help, he was not there. Because of you. Because of how pathetic you are’._

_‘I’m sorry’, Molly sobs, unable to take it anymore._

_‘Too late’, Sherlock says. His grimace of a smile slowly became a real one._

_Mycroft morphed out of nowhere, next to him._

_‘Too late, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft says, his face serious.  He stands next to Sherlock, in front of her, both pairs of eyes shining with the same calculated look._

_‘I’m afraid my brother has lied to you, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft says, his voice echoing. ‘For you never did count’._

_Molly gasps loudly, and before she could say anything, Mycroft pulls out his umbrella, and used it to push her chair over, tipping her over the cliff._

_Molly screams and screams, but despite the noise of the waterfall and her own shrieks, she could hear Sherlock laughing._

Molly’s ears were ringing with her screams as she woke up. Sweat covered her face and neck, and had soaked her sleeping shirt. Relief filled her as she realised she was in her bedroom, the same house Sherlock had come to, almost eight months ago after faking his death.

 

Eight months. Eight months of lying. Molly remembered Mycroft’s blank face when she told him Sherlock was alive, two weeks ago. His silence was killing her. Molly looked at the space next to her door, and sees the umbrella she had propped there; the one Mycroft had left behind.

 

As her breaths turned to cries, Molly hid her face in her hands and surrendered to the tears.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

A firm but quiet knock on the door penetrated the silence of Mycroft Holmes office.

 

Mycroft sighed, turning away from the papers on his desk, to look at the door.

 

‘Come in’, he said, levelly. His assistant walked through, her hands empty of anything but the ever present Blackberry.

 

 **Read:** Lack of folders or electronic evidence indicated Anthea has found nothing. Again. Hunched shoulders, open arms, reinforced shoulders - she expected a reprimand of some kind. This was the fifth search in the two weeks. Sherlock, wherever he was, had hidden his tracks well. Impressively so. Mycroft wondered when his brother had relocated Mycroft to the same sort of room as his enemies in his mind palace.

 

 ‘Nothing?’, Mycroft prompted, turning his glance back to the papers. The stark white against the black text burned his eyes, and he felt a strange pain in his chest ( **read:** probably indigestion from the tomato soup he had for supper last night. Tomatoes never did agree with him).

 

‘Dr Hooper’s text message couldn’t be traced back to any source, despite the nature of the investigation’, Anthea said, calmly. ‘Should I initiate another attempt?’

 

 **Read:** His team were as exasperated as he was. Another, more invasive search would yield nothing. Mycroft suspected that someone on the team had been complaining to Anthea about the scarcity of information they were given about the object of their search. Further investigation would only lead to questions. Questions could not be afforded.

 

‘No’, Mycroft said, rubbing his temples. ‘Shut it down. Make sure to leave no traces’.

 

‘Yes, sir’, Anthea agreed, too quickly. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her.

 

‘Yes?’, Mycroft said, his voice testy. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to calm down. It had been a long day, and he found himself in the precarious position of having his moods on hair trigger.

 

_Subjecting yourself to caring will solve nothing._

‘I was thinking’, Anthea started, scrutinising Mycroft ( **read:** Mycroft had had the same assistant for entirely too long if she is starting to use his methods of reading people. However, replacing Anthea would cause more problems than it would solve).

 

Anthea was staring at him. Mycroft blinked, and tilted his head.

 

‘What?’, he said, uncharacteristically. He grimaced slightly before assuming his normal expression.

 

‘I said’, Anthea began. ‘That perhaps you should contact Dr Hooper. Perhaps you should also get some sleep. It is late’.

 

 **Read:** His current range of language of sorely limited crude words, that only Sherlock made use of on any regular basis, indicated tiredness and frustration. His assistant had put this down to lack of sleep, but Mycroft knew it for what it really was. Dr Hooper? Mind Gallery contains no source of….Molly Hooper?

 

Mycroft felt tired.

 

‘I confess, I may be slightly tired after the meeting with the Ambassador of France’, Mycroft admitted. ‘What is this about Dr Hooper?’

 

Anthea seemed strange ( **read:** angry. Defence of Molly Hooper in play. **Note** : schedule a meeting with Anthea to talk about her strange attachment).

 

‘After all, Dr Hooper was the one that received the message from your brother’, Anthea said, looking behind herself to check the door was closed. ‘I was wondering whether talking to her about it may help?’

 

Mycroft looked at her carefully.

 

‘Your suggestion is a good one’, Mycroft said, blankly. ‘However, I doubt that Dr Hooper is in possession of any more information than she has already confessed.’

 

‘She has managed to keep a secret for almost eight months now’, Anthea said. ‘You forget, sir, that I observed her for a considerable amount of time. It has been two weeks since she decided to talk to you about it.’

 

 **Read** : This is one of the few times Anthea has confused you. This fact suggests that it is of a sentimental nature, or involves social normative that is beneath you. **Conversation result:** Anthea will persist. **Advised action:** disagree at all costs. Nothing good will come out of it.

 

‘Dr Hooper is under Level 4 surveillance’, Mycroft said. ‘If anything should have occurred, I would already know.’

 

‘But sir-‘, Anthea said, failing to keep her calm. Mycroft glanced at her quickly, and she quietened.

 

‘No further questions’, Mycroft said, picking up a pen to sign a document. ‘I am busy, but please let me know when Mr Johnson arrives. Carry on’.

 

Anthea faltered, and then left quietly. With a click of the door, Mycroft dropped the pen. He sighed again, and put his head in his hands, mussing his perfectly coiffed hair.

 

_Hearts are broken. That is not your problem._

Removing his head from his hands, Mycroft looked straight ahead, at the large, empty room as a whole.

 

The mayor was not due for another hour. Mycroft patted his suit jacket for his mobile phone.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

‘Molly? Delivery for you!’, said a chirpy voice at her door.

 

Molly opened her eyes, rubbing them, and realised she had fallen asleep. Jumping up slightly, she sat straight, smoothing down her clothes as to not seem tired. Her computer screen was bright, in front of her, displaying an article she had been half way through, before she fell asleep.

 

‘Come…come in!’ Molly said, trying to get the sleep out of her voice. Last night’s…nightmare…had drained her, was still haunting her, even though she couldn’t remember the majority of it now.

 

All she remembered, really, was bright blue eyes. Was probably about Sherlock, but she had an odd feeling it wasn’t. She shook herself mentally, again, because she had decided not to think about that.

 

Laura, the receptionist, bustled in, a large smile on her face as always, carrying a quite large bouquet of yellow flowers. Roses, Molly observed, yellow roses.

 

_For Molly?_

‘Someone likes you’, Laura said, conversationally. ‘Yellow roses! Lucky, you are, to be getting flowers at work’.

 

Molly’s eyes boggled at Laura, as she put the large bouquet in front of her. A rose poked Molly in the face, and she could see a small card wedged right in the middle of the flowers. She hoped Laura couldn’t see it.

 

‘A-are these for me?’, Molly said, her voice squeaky. She tried to clear it. ‘But I…I haven’t done anything!’

 

Laura waggled her eyebrows. Molly looked down helplessly. Laura was the ultimate gossip, and wasn’t going to leave her alone until she got answers. But Molly honestly didn’t know who would send her flowers, and tried to remember if she had ever received flowers before.

 

Laura hadn’t moved, and was still cooing over the flowers.

 

‘So who they from, then?’, Laura said, searching the flowers before Molly could stop her. Laura found the card, and Molly knew, she knew, that this was not going to be good.

 

‘Dear Dr Hooper’, Laura read, note high in her hands. ‘Thank you. MH.’

 

Molly was confused. What?

 

_Thank you. Mycroft Holmes._

The realisation hit her hard and she was reeling at the thought. Molly stared at the flowers, more confused than ever. Did people like Mycroft Holmes normally send flowers?

 

‘Erm, can I have that?’, Molly said, grabbing the note out of Laura’s hand. She read it again.

 

**_Dear Dr Hooper,_ **

**_Thank you_ **

**_MH._ **

****

The penmanship was beautiful, the writing in dark blue ink, on expensive looking beige card.

 

‘MH’, Laura said, loudly, looking over Molly’s shoulder. ‘Who’s that then?’

 

Molly gulped audibly. She felt as if her brain had gone numb, yet she was automatically filling in the gaps in her head.

 

_Thank you for saving my brother._

She carefully put the card into her cardigan pocket, and looked up to smile brightly, fakely, at the puzzled receptionist.

 

‘I don’t know’, Molly said, firmly. ‘A relative of a patient, probably. Maybe they wanted to thank me for…looking after their relative. The body, I mean’.

 

Laura still looked confused, but then smiled.

 

‘Patient, sure, if you like’, Laura said playfully, patting Molly’s shoulder. ‘Rich relative then. Look at the amount of flowers!’

 

‘Yes’, Molly said absently, looking at them.

 

She knew what Laura was trying to say, what she wanted Molly to say, but the truth was that it could never ever be like that. This was Sherlock’s brother. Who had ignored her, _abandoned_ her, after she had confessed to the biggest secret she knew. A secret that wasn’t even hers. The thought still hurt, the way he had just left, without so much as a ‘thanks’. Although she supposed he had done that now.

 

That was all the flowers were, then. A pretty and polite ‘thank you’, with the added obvious ‘now please make sure to keep your mouth shut’ in invisible ink.

 

Molly sighed.

 

‘Thank you, Laura’, she said, tiredly. ‘I-I need to get on now, thanks for getting these to me’.

 

It was a dismissal that Laura would probably recognise even if it was as stuttered and weak as it came from Molly.

 

‘No problem,’ Laura said, cheerfully. ‘Enjoy the flowers. Will brighten up the room a bit, I think. Seems more cheerful’.

 

_How bright and cheerful can a room full of dead people seem?_

After Laura left, Molly looked at the flowers. Gingerly, she plucked one out of the bunch, and smelled it. She had always loved roses. Then Molly got up, leaving the flowers on her desk, she put on her lab coat and pocketed the one yellow flower.

 

She got to work. No time for dwelling too much on the subject.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Mycroft had always found Diogenes a calming place. Restful. Unlike the majority of his time, which he spent arguing and negotiating with people ( **read:** he would allow himself today to say it, as a treat- negotiating with _idiots_ ), here he could read and think in absolute silence, without the bustle of people who could not appreciate the value of peace.

 

This was why he had joined Diogenes, Mycroft had thought. Even the powerful needed a break, some sort of respite.

 

( **Read:** at the time of membership, Mycroft could admit to himself, he had been thinking of Sherlock. A place to get away from Sherlock. A place without noise, a place of order would be exactly the sort of place Sherlock would avoid, and therefore perfect for Mycroft. Irony. Now he could not _find_ Sherlock, who had now been gone for almost nine months. **Warning:** Stop thinking about Sherlock.)

 

Taking a small sip of scotch, Mycroft allowed himself to close his eyes, timing thirty seconds. Thirty seconds, and all would be well. However, twenty-one seconds in, Mycroft’s phone vibrated in his pocket, breaking the brief tranquillity of his mind.

 

_So much for that, then._

Clicking on his phone, the missed call from his assistant penetrated his mind with a strange sense of foreboding.

 

**Read:**   Missed call rather than a text message, one short ring. Not intended to be accepted, but to alert him to call as soon as possible, to remove himself from Diogenes. Indicated it was urgent, suggesting Anthea was impatient, rushing somewhere, unable to text. Ordering a car, most likely. This meant he needed to be somewhere urgently. **Memory:** no pressing appointments, no expected malfunctions in governmental matters, national or international. No address asked for, or given. Anthea already knew where to go. Expected you to work it out in the next ten seconds. Ah.

 

A chill ran down his spine. His heart leapt, and he attempted to tame it.

 

_Sherlock._

 

As sensibly as Mycroft could manage, he walked out of the room, taking hold of the replacement umbrella for the one he had lost. For the first time, he wished he could run in Diogenes.

 

_Caring only ends badly. Desist. Now._

With the first breath of cold, English air, Mycroft wondered if it may not be Sherlock at all.

 

_Molly Hooper?_

**Read:** It was bad form to automatically jump from his brother to an unknown woman that had nothing to do with either of them. Mycroft found that his mind was doing odd things these days.

 

Mycroft dialled. His assistant picked up almost instantly.

 

‘Yes?’, Mycroft said, impatiently.

 

_Sherlock or Dr Hooper?_

‘Both of them’, Anthea said, reading Mycroft’s mind. ‘There has been another message.’

 

Mycroft found that it was suddenly hard to speak. He swallowed hard, and wished he had had another glass of Scotch.

 

‘Where?’, he demanded. ‘What was it?’

 

Anthea hesitated.

 

 **Read:** Anthea didn’t actually have the message, whatever it may be. She did, however, know where it was. Somehow, Mycroft knew where this was going.

 

_What was it about Molly Hooper that his brother trusted so much?_

‘I have a visual and audio’, Anthea said. ‘I’m coming with a car right now, ETA 17 seconds. No, 10 seconds’.

 

Ten seconds later, the familiar Jaguar pulled up in front of him. Without deliberation, Mycroft stepped inside swiftly. Anthea was pulling something up on an iPad.

 

‘Molly Hooper attempted to contact you ten minutes ago’, Anthea said, pushing the screen in front of him. ‘Luckily the PM cancelled his meeting; I’ve rescheduled it for tomorrow for you’.

 

Ignoring Anthea’s words, Mycroft kept his eyes on the iPad, and noted the CCTV footage, stamped eleven minutes prior. On the screen, Dr Hooper walked about for a while outside the entrance of the hospital, glancing several times over her shoulder. Attempting to avoid getting wet, Dr Hooper held a distinctive black umbrella. She turned around towards the CCTV camera she knew was there, and spoke to it clearly.

 

‘P-Please’, she said, her voice tinny and anxious. ‘I hope the right person is getting this. I need to…Please come. There’s something I need to show you. It’s important and to do with….um. Please just come.’

 

Anthea froze the screen, on the image of Molly Hooper standing on her toes towards the camera, the black, too big umbrella pressed against her shoulder. Framing her face. She looked so innocent, Mycroft had thought. A victim of war.

 

Mycroft blinked, pushing the thought away. Deduction.

 

 **Read:** Molly Hooper was worried. Potentially scared, most likely just anxious. Worried because she has been weary ever since Baskov, and was cautious of attracting the attention of the wrong person. Anxious because she felt she has some kind of…intelligence that affected her but she could not control. The high shoulders and beseeching big eyes meant she felt that the information was not safe in her hands. She was correct.

 

Mycroft looked carefully at Molly, knowing that Anthea is staring at him. The black umbrella.

 

 **Read:** The way she gripped hold of the umbrella suggested that the object is foreign to herself, personally. The manner of the grip indicated frustration and anger of the real owner of the umbrella. Mycroft, accordingly. French Mahogany, polished, custom-made to Mycroft’s strength and height meant that it was too heavy for the much smaller woman to carry properly. She was adjusting. **Memory:** Mycroft had left the umbrella with Molly the last time they had met.

 

‘Where is Dr Hooper now?’ Mycroft asked.

 

‘She left the hospital for her flat approximately five minutes ago,’ Anthea supplied. ‘We’re heading there now.’

 

Mycroft tapped his fingers on his knee, and looked outside the window. His head was starting to hurt to keep with his heart, which would not stop its incessant rapidity in beating. His mind drew up images of pieces of paper confirming Sherlock was dead or seriously hurt. Another clip showed Dr Hooper insisting she had made a mistake and that she had lied about Sherlock being alive.

 

_Ridiculous. Dr Hooper was not the dramatic sort._

 

Mycroft blinked. He and Anthea were now outside Molly Hooper’s flat, and after a brief trip up some stairs, they reached her door. Dr Hooper opened the door before Mycroft could attempt to knock.

 

Molly looked tired.

 

 **Read:** She had not been sleeping well. Late nights at work, more likely, nightmares. Possibly about Baskov. Her frantic expression suggested she had only reached her flat seconds before they had, and she was worried. Sweaty palms and unconscious gesturing at herself meant that the worry was personal. Odd for a woman who was essentially selfless.

 

‘H-here’, Molly said, ushering them inside. Mycroft quickly glanced at the small, comfortable living room, frames with pictures of her cat, a white rug covering the hard wood floor.

 

 **Read:** Molly Hooper was _lonely._

Walking quickly up to her coffee table, Molly picked up a laptop, pressed a few buttons, before she showed Mycroft the screen. Anthea took Mycroft’s phone from his hand, so Mycroft could see the screen properly. The screen showed Molly Hooper’s email server.

**To: mollyandtoby@hotmail.co.uk**

**From: 1997C14MHOOPER@mail.com**

**SH**

 

Mycroft looked at Molly, who was staring at him with a tinge of confusion and fear in her eyes.

 

 **Read** : Email was from Sherlock- strong positive. Email made to look like junk email, but Molly Hooper was worried by the contents of the email address, also, the characteristic signature. Not unintelligent, the code in the address. 1997C14MHOOPER. Last part obviously referred to Molly, which she has worked out herself. 1997- the year Sherlock proceeded to take drugs. A mistake. _C14_. C14, referring to the code system Mycroft and Sherlock had created as children, for the times when they couldn’t speak clearly to each other. The nature of their work, respectively, often required it. Wait. Think. No.

 

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly, and he knew Molly had noticed it, having been used to dealing with Sherlock’s miniscule changes in behaviour.

 

‘What?’ Molly said.

 

_Code 14: need for protection._

_1997- Sherlock and drugs, big mistake_

_MHOOPER- Molly._

‘Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said finally. ‘I assure you the message is nothing of alarm. However, I suggest you come with me’.

 

Molly and Anthea both stared at him. Molly nodded.

 

Mycroft looked at the message once more, before closing the laptop. The message was branded in his mind.

 

_Made a mistake. Protect Molly.         SH._

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that’s all for now, hope you guys liked it! Please read and review- they really do help with the plotbunnies, ask my beta! The next chapter has already been written up, but still needs to be beta’d and proof read a couple of more times- you guys can expect it at the end of this week, or next Monday at the latest. Also, i'm looking to join the Tumblr community (yes, look at me being so behind the times), would it be worth it? Remember to review!


	6. Funny When You’re Dead How People Start Listening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also do not own the Jaguars, yucky buildings, or Mycroft’s eyes. 
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello everyone! I have impulsive issues. This was supposed to be posted tomorrow…but I couldn’t wait. Also, I’m exhausted as hell, so I can’t remember if there’s anything that needs to be taken note of in this chapter. Just lots of Molly and Mycroft interaction ahead!  
> This chapter has been beta’d, but I haven’t looked over it again, but I do trust my beta- the lovely Adalind, who is a fantastic fellow rambler. I will look over it again when I’m not falling asleep- any mistakes in this are my fault only. 
> 
> This chapter is named from the lyrics of ‘If I Die Young’, by The Band Perry.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

When Molly had been 4 four years old, her baby sister had been born. Molly aunts and uncles had cooed over the little baby. Molly barely remembered anything from that time, but she did remember a small, pink baby, with the biggest eyes she had ever seen. The baby had hair already, thick blonde turfs tufts of it, growing in almost unreal looking little curls. She was the most beautiful thing Molly had ever seen.

 

Molly tried to push past her aunt, toddling her way to the little cot, and tried to touch the baby’s hand. The baby, as if by some sort of foreboding, began crying, wailing as if she had been burnt. Their relationship had been pretty much doomed from the start.

 

Molly’s baby sister was christened Lydia, which meant ‘the beautiful one’ in some far away, exotic language, according to Molly’s dad; Molly had to agree that the name really did suit her. As Lydia grew up, she became more beautiful, her baby blonde curls becoming thick, lustrous ringlets. Her eyes were bright olive green, and everyone adored Lydia. Molly, who had been in the awkward teenage phase that she never really grew out of, had pretty much been forgotten while her sister blossomed. Molly had never thought herself ugly, even if her hair refused to be any other colour other than its own boring shade of brown, and her eyes were also a dull brown. Her sister, younger than her, developed something that resembled a body shape, an hourglass, while Molly was stuck looking like a little boy. At least that part hadn’t remained like that for too long but no one noticed Molly’s more discrete feminine curves.  When Molly’s mother had died, Molly was 16 and Lydia was 12. Everyone had felt sorry for Lydia, the poor girl that had lost her mother at such a young age while Molly quietly stayed in her seat, and didn’t bother to mention that she was also a girl who lost her mother. Molly had gone home that day, had locked herself in the bathroom away from her father’s broken face, and had cried quietly on the tiled floor. Her eyes burned and stung from the tears and her heart ached, ached because her mother had been the one person who had thought she was someone other than boring, little Molly Hooper. Her mother now would never be able to teach her how to be a woman, how to be beautiful the way Lydia seemed somehow to already know.

 

Worst of all, at least for Molly, was when Lydia developed a personality Molly could never compare with. She was…vivacious, she was always, always energetic and happy somehow, even when there was nothing to be happy about. While Molly was quietly reading large tomes of Chemistry texts at the back of the library, Lydia was being admitted to acting school, and everyone knew she was going to be a success. When Molly, at 18 years of age, had finally put up the courage to talk to the sweet, geeky boy she had had a crush on for ages, Lydia had already been there and done that, and Molly had just given up.

 

Molly couldn’t remember a time when she expected to be anything, anything other than…another human. Another person on the planet, someone so very unknown, even to herself, who would live and grow, and eventually die. She would never appear on TV screens or be a name in a book, she would not win a Nobel prize. Molly always knew, whatever she decided to do with her life, she would do it quietly, and very, very normally. Molly was nothing if not ordinary. She was most definitely not special. She would never have an appearance or a dress sense that would make people stop and stare, she would never have long legs or cupid bow, plum lips. She was intelligent, but not so much that it would count, and she had a stutter, a nervous disposition that meant she was never going to be a social butterfly.

 

Molly was most definitely normal, and nothing to stop and look at, but she knew, knew she could be more, something more than herself, one day. And then, one day, Sherlock had finally, _finally_ , been the first person to tell her that she mattered, and that she counted. She didn’t care if it were a lie. He had said it, and she would do whatever he needed her to, especially if it meant she wasn’t boring, normal Molly Hooper anymore. So she did. But no one knew, and Molly Hooper was still the most _nothing_ person in the history of the universe.

 

Meanwhile, Lydia had managed to be kicked out of Italia Conti drama school for reasons she still wouldn’t tell Molly, and had met a boy and had had a baby a few years back, something Molly hadn’t managed. Their aunts and uncles, as they had at Lydia’s birth, had come and cooed at the little baby Jake, and told Lydia how fantastic she was, how lucky to have had such a beautiful boy, such a handsome husband, and such a lovely home. Nothing had changed.

 

So when, half an hour ago, Molly had received what had to be the most confusing and scariest email of her life, she knew when she was in trouble. To say she was confused was, really, a massive understatement. Molly may be an idiot, according to Sherlock, but she definitely was not stupid. Whatever the email contained, it was bad for her if Mycroft Holmes felt that she couldn’t remain on her own anymore. She had caught that expression on his always perfectly composed face.  She might not know what it meant but she was sure that was actually an _expression of something_.

 

 

 

_Who on Earth cares enough to want to hurt me?_

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

Molly was walking down the stairs from her flat, Mycroft Holmes in front of her taking two steps at a time, and Anthea behind her, clicking away at her phone. Molly chewed her lip, and almost bit it too hard when she saw the shiny Jaguar outside her flat. As she stepped up to the doors, she wondered if her neighbours had seen it, and whether they would ask her about it later. She had no idea what she had been doing until Mycroft Holmes was suddenly too close to her, and then he was not, as he gently pushed her away so he could open the door for her. Mycroft’s left hand was quite nice, Molly thought, and she wondered if all the Holmeses were so tall and generally large people (if there were more of them, she had never asked Sherlock). Molly blushed, for reasons she didn’t want to delve into, and now she was thinking about why, for the sake of all that was holy, she was thinking about _Mycroft’s hands_ when she was obviously in some kind of danger.

 

_Weren’t people generally scared, at this point?_

 

Molly climbed into the car. The seats were leather and butter soft, no signs of cracking or anything other than the ultimate softness, but Molly found she didn’t care. The frustration of not understanding was back, as it had been practically for the last nine months, and there were still no answers. Mycroft swiftly climbed in after her, and Anthea climbed into the front passenger seat, and ignored them both. The car moved off, and Molly felt she could finally speak.

 

‘W-where are we going?’, Molly said, trying to talk above Anthea’s clicking.

 

‘All in good time, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said, looking at his own phone. ‘All in good time’.

 

Somehow, this was the wrong answer for Molly, and she felt more agitated than ever. Nice hands or not, she was  tired of being ignored all the time.

 

‘What did the email say? There was nothing on the page’, Molly asked. Mycroft’s face twitched weirdly, and suddenly he wasn’t that different from Sherlock. He was annoyed by her questions, Molly could tell.

 

‘I’m sure you are not so unintelligent, Dr Hooper, to have not noticed the email address itself’, Mycroft said, still not looking at her. ‘We shall talk about this in greater depth once we have reached our destination.’

 

‘But…’, Molly said, unable to stop herself. ‘ _What is going on?_ ’

 

‘If I have to repeat myself-‘, Mycroft began, and something in Molly broke.

 

‘For God’s sake, tell me something that means something!’, she said, much louder than she had intended. Her voice was shrill and high. The clicking sounds from Anthea’s phone stopped.

 

Mycroft was finally looking at her, but not in a way Molly could read. Sherlock had that face too, Molly thought, but only when he was looking at something down the microscope.

 

‘I just…when I t-told I don’t know anything, ages ago, I…I meant it’, Molly babbled, her voice lower. ‘I hate n-not knowing, I have to do something, and you can’t just- you can’t kidnap me and take me somewhere without telling me!’

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but continued to look at her as if she was a lab specimen.

 

‘I’m afraid you may have misunderstood,’ Mycroft said, carefully. ‘I do not kidnap. I was under the impression that you entered the car willingly.’

Heat prickled at the hairs on the back of Molly’s head, and she knew her face must be flushed. Hot anger filled her, and yet, although Molly wasn’t an angry or loud person, she felt she could yell at this man for hours. Definitely from the same gene pool as Sherlock!

 

Molly sulked on the inside, but hopefully it did not show outwardly.  Even if she wasn’t happy, she didn’t want to seem impolite, she did have some manners. When she stayed silent, Mycroft spoke again.

 

‘It is not safe for us to speak freely in the car or at your flat’, Mycroft carried on. ‘I have secured a safe destination for us to do so, and I apologise, for I did not realise that was not clear.’

 

Molly knew what he was really saying: she was an idiot for not realising that dangerous topics should not be discussed in dangerous places, which now apparently included her home. She should shut up until they got to a safe place, and it was her own fault and stupidity that she couldn’t figure it out.

 

‘Um. Okay’, Molly said, quietly. ‘Sorry’.

 

The remainder of the journey was quiet, and for once, Molly actually welcomed Anthea’s obsession with her phone, as the clicking provided a little noise in the otherwise pin drop silence.

 

When the car stopped and pulled up on the pavement, all Molly could see was a very old and ruined-looking building, which from the outside looked like it had once been a car park for a multi-floored shopping centre. Mycroft seemed to be fine with this, and he quickly stepped out of the car, before Molly remembered she needed to get out too. Anthea stayed in her seat, nodding at Mycroft slightly, before looking at her phone again. Out in the cold air, the day was turning dark, but Molly suddenly realised that, next to Mycroft, who as always was dressed in an incredibly smart-looking designer suit and trench coat, Molly probably looked like a child to anyone looking at them. Not that anyone was around, from what Molly could see, but she straightened her stripy wool jumper down, as if that would help, and wished she hadn’t put her hair up in its ordinary but unsophicated ponytail.

 

Molly walked behind Mycroft, as he approached the building. Inside the building was even darker than outside, and there was a slightly wet and mouldy smell. It also looked as if it could fall down any minute.

 

‘Is it…Is it safe here?’, Molly asked, nearly tripping over what looked like a very old traffic cone. Definitely a car park, Molly thought, but it didn’t look like it had been used in ages.

 

‘Perfectly safe’, Mycroft said, seeming pleased with the location, as he poked the wet ground with his umbrella. Another umbrella, Molly noticed, since she still hadn’t given him the one he had left behind . She wondered if he minded that she still had it.

 

Mycroft looked at her as she was standing in front of him, his eyes slightly creased in deliberation.

 

‘The building is stable. Very much so’, Mycroft said. ‘Also, we shan’t be heard here’.

 

Molly wasn’t so sure. There was a creaky sound coming from somewhere above them, the walls, somehow, looked soft, to Molly at least.

 

In the time it had taken Molly to blink, Mycroft had somehow managed to produce two, very clean, plastic chairs. He placed one next to her, and sat on the other one, facing her, and crossed his legs. Molly couldn’t help but observe the contrast to the rest of the scene- him - smart and dapper looking, definitely out of place in a run-down looking building. On the other hand, Molly thought, she could fit in here well.

 

Molly sat down, clumsily.

 

‘Why are we here?’, she asked, still looking around worriedly.

 

‘It’s a safe location, so we can finally speak without being overheard’, Mycroft said. Molly blinked, and wondered if Mycroft realised that their voices were carrying quite far, echoing against, what seemed like, hollow walls.

 

‘Down to business’, Mycroft said, promptly. ‘I would like to know, if you please, what exactly was your role in helping Sherlock prevent his demise’.

 

Molly felt as though she was being interrogated, and they had only just started.

 

‘I….I-I thought you were going to tell me what was going on?’, Molly tried, not exactly avoiding his question. She would answer, but he promised he would tell her everything once they had arrived here.

 

‘I can only fully explain our situation once I have a clear idea of your role. You must have gathered that, so far, you are in danger of attack’, Mycroft said. ‘You see, I appear to have neglected your position in Sherlock’s life, otherwise, rest assured, we would have had the pleasure of meeting much earlier’.

 

_Danger of attack? Who would want to hurt me?_

‘W-Why? I haven’t done anything!’, Molly said, clearly, knowing she sounded stupid. ‘If…If it’s to do with Sherlock, yes, I did help him, and we were ….friends, I think. He asked for my help, and I did what he said. That’s all that happened, really’.

 

Mycroft looked at her carefully. He stayed silent for several moments, unnerving Molly.

 

‘Are you always so modest?’, Mycroft finally asked, his hand under his chin, with his elbow on his knee. 

 

‘W-What?’, Molly said, and for some reason, she blushed. Mycroft, almost scarily and for the first time, smiled at her. He moved his hand away from his face.

 

‘I find you a very interesting read’, Mycroft said, confusing the hell out of Molly. ‘And I fear you are down-playing yourself. You most certainly have done something of great effect’.

 

‘I w-wasn’t even really involved’, Molly said, still confused. She tugged at the hem of her jumper. ‘Sherlock did nearly everything. I just. I just provided the body, and the blood, erm, blood from the hospital, and made it….look like Sherlock’.

 

Mycroft stared at Molly, legs uncrossed. He leaned towards her very slightly.

 

‘Explain, please’, he said, shortly. His face betrayed no expression. So Molly spoke.

 

She told him everything, almost everything- she didn’t tell him about how she had nearly screamed when she saw Sherlock fall from the building above her, how she had prayed he hadn’t got hurt, after all. She didn’t tell him about how she had stolen blood bags, lab coats, and all the other equipment Sherlock had requested, or how there was still an inquiry going on about that. She hadn’t been caught yet. She also didn’t tell Mycroft how Sherlock’s face had was after his fake death, pale and as cold as if he really had died.

 

She didn’t tell Mycroft that she had asked Sherlock about him, then, before they had even properly met.

 

‘…Afterwards, after John had been taken away from St Bart’s, I mean, I took Sherlock back home. To my home,’ Molly said. Mycroft had listened in rapt silence, and Molly felt an odd sense of relief to finally to able to talk about it all to someone, to anyone, at all.

 

‘H-he hadn’t been hurt at all, but he had a few scratches and cuts, so I stitched him up. He…was fine otherwise. Mostly’, Molly said, clearing her throat. This had been the most she had ever spoken, to anyone, as far as she could remember. The fact that Mycroft Holmes was the one actually _listening_ to her, was another wonder in itself.

 

‘He booked a plane ticket, in a fake name,’ Molly finished. ‘I d-don’t know where. He didn’t tell me. I also…he made me dye his hair. Ginger, although I don’t know if he’s changed it again. But you could add that to your search, I know you have been searching. Anyways, the plan…it was a s-success. Sherlock lived.’

 

‘And no one knows’, Mycroft finished for her. Molly nodded, feeling numb. She cleared her throat again.

 

‘You…You haven’t found him, have you?’ Molly said. At Mycroft’s surprised face, Molly carried on. ‘I can tell. I-I wish I could be more help, but… That’s all I know.’

 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore, seeming thoughtful and far away. Finally, he turned to her.

 

‘It’s true that I don’t know where my brother has gone’, Mycroft confirmed. ‘However, please believe me when I say, I will do my utmost in order to find him, and I shall.’

 

Mycroft smiled, almost sadly. Molly felt like her heart was hurting.

 

‘He hasn’t managed to beat me yet, though why he feels he has to, is a mystery to me’, Mycroft continued. Molly wondered if he knew he was talking out loud, the words sounding private, as if they weren’t mean to be heard.

 

‘However, he had contacted you, and that is a blessing in itself’, Mycroft said. ‘We should be thankful he did that much as it provides a higher chance of us being able to locate him. So please do not worry yourself’.

 

Molly nodded. She wanted to ask about the message.

 

‘You are thinking about Sherlock’s email’, Mycroft said, reading her thoughts. Molly felt as though she should not be surprised. ‘You are right to worry. However, you are not in any danger.’

 

‘What did it mean, the message?’, Molly said. ‘All I know is that it has my name in it’.

 

‘Yes’, Mycroft agreed. ‘I’m afraid the message is not a happy one.’

 

Molly waited, as Mycroft seemed to deliberate.

 

‘Sherlock seems to believe he has made a mistake of some kind’, Mycroft clarified. ‘He also believes this mistake…pertains to you, somehow. He has asked for you to be protected. By myself, presumably’.

 

Molly’s heart thudded hard, as her fears were confirmed. Someone out there wanted to…hurt her.

 

‘But w-why?’, Molly said, her voice shrill again. ‘Sherlock- Sherlock said that no one would know I helped him. D-Did he ….tell someone?’

 

Mycroft looked at her, quietly.

 

‘My brother often acts strangely. Peculiarly, you could say. I’m afraid it’s a family trait,’ Mycroft said. Molly silently agreed, her heart still beating too fast. ‘For that very reason, he has very few friends, and even fewer ones he can trust’.

 

Mycroft stood up suddenly, and held his hand out to help Molly up. She took it, and as she rose, she could see Anthea walking up to them slowly.

 

‘What makes you so special, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said softly, his hand still in hers. ‘Is that you are one of the latter. He trusts you, deeply. Sherlock is nothing if not loyal to those he trusts. He would never compromise you knowingly.’

Something deep in Molly ached at the word, Mycroft’s voice wrapping itself around it, and squeezing her throat, somehow. Molly’s heart was beating even faster now, but she wasn’t sure of the reason anymore.

 

‘O-Okay’, Molly said, carefully. ‘But I don’t want to be a bother. To you, I mean, I…I understand Sherlock’s email said I need to be protected, or something, but I...I can take care of myself’.

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, and let go of her hand.

 

‘Nonsense’, Mycroft said, shortly. ‘If Sherlock considers you need protecting, then protect you I shall.  I have access to certain specialised resources that would help greatly, which you certainly do not’.

 

Molly thought about this.

 

‘You aren’t a minor government official’, Molly said with certainty. ‘I…I never believed that.’

 

‘Then what am I, Dr Hooper?’ Mycroft said, almost teasingly.

 

Was he teasing her?

 

Molly hesitated.

 

‘A spy of some kind, maybe?’, she said, before she could help herself. ‘I d-don’t…James Bond?’

 

Mycroft smiled at her openly, and actually let out a laugh.

 

‘If that’s what you’d like to believe, I certainly shan’t stop you’, Mycroft said. ‘It sounds a good deal more exciting than my actual occupation’.

 

‘Sir, Dr Hooper?’

 

They both turned at the sound of Anthea’s voice. Molly had completely forgotten about the woman standing a few steps away.

 

‘Anthea has arranged for you some temporary accommodation, if you don’t mind’, Mycroft said turning back to Molly. ‘She has also collected some of your things, so you will be inconvenienced as little as possible.’

 

Molly wondered about Toby, her cat.

 

‘Your cat has also been taken to your accommodation’, Mycroft said. ‘Please don’t worry, it shall only be for a few nights until we can be sure that your flat is not compromised’.

 

‘My work’, Molly said. ‘C-Can I go to work?’

 

Mycroft looked at his assistant.  She nodded.

 

‘Yes, you may’, Mycroft confirmed. ‘A new mortuary assistant shall be assigned to you in due course.’

 

Molly looked at Anthea, who smiled.

 

‘Not me, this time’, Anthea said.

 

Molly felt disappointed, before she realised that’s what she was feeling.

 

‘O-Oh’, Molly said, not sure of what to do. ‘Am…Am I going to be taken to the accommodation now?’

 

Anthea’s phone pinged loudly, echoing in the emptiness of the building.

 

‘Sir, your schedule is free for the rest of the evening’, Anthea suddenly said. ‘But I’m not’.

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her.

 

‘Very well’, Mycroft said, and looked at Molly and she noted that he seemed less stern than before. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

 

‘She hasn’t eaten since 1.23pm, at lunch during work’, Anthea said, without lifting her eyes from the phone. Molly felt like scowling, but she realised that it was now dark, and indeed she hadn’t eaten in ages. She thought, forlornly, about the baked cheese pasta abandoned in her fridge.

 

‘Then’, Mycroft said. ‘If you feel up to it, Dr Hooper, would you like to have dinner with me?’

 

Molly blushed again, and wished, really really wished she had worn something other than her stupid stripy jumper.

 

‘Call me Molly, please’, she said. ‘And. Um. Okay’.

 

Molly could feel she was in trouble, a lot of it, and not just the danger Sherlock warned about.

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all folks! The next chapter is already written up, and is in the beta-ing stage. No idea when I’ll post it, but some point next week or so. I’m having less and less time to actually write these chapters, but I’m trying my best. There is a defined amount of chapters for this now- 12 chapters- but I have a feeling this may change, depending on how much time I have to write a chapter.
> 
> Please read and comment!!! Comments feed the tired plotbunny, making it more awake


	7. I Wish I Wasn't Such A Narcissist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly gets to know Mycroft better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I do NOT own Burger King. I don’t even know why it’s in here. Oh, i also don't own the song that this chapter is named after.
> 
> Author's Notes: It’s me again! Sometimes I worry that I’m somehow putting other writers off Mollcroft in the way I seem to dominant the Molly/Mycroft threads on both ff.net and AO3, but I don’t want readers to have to wait too long for updates. Although that may change soon. 
> 
> Also, I know there has pretty much been no romance in this story as of yet (and there will be!), but this chapter should show the beginnings of a romance between Molly and Mycroft, and will only get more so from here. As Molly and Mycroft are quite a unique and unusual pairing due to their polar personalities (in some ways), I want their relationship to develop slowly. 
> 
> I’ll shut up now, before I start re-writing the whole story in the A/N.
> 
> EDIT: I'm a dingbat. The title of the chapter is from the lyrics of 'Teen Idle' by Marina and the Diamonds.  
> EDIT AGAIN: I swear i've left my brain on the tube. This chapter was beta'd by the lovely Adalind. I promise guys, i'm not insane, just stressed.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

When Molly was 12 years old, her mother had told her that everyone in the world, with no exceptions, either was a heartbreaker or was made to have their hearts broken.

 

It didn’t take Molly long to realise which one she was. It was clear on the day that her first boyfriend broke up with her when she was 14, for a much prettier girl. It was clear in the fact that at 17, when Molly had told her boyfriend that she wasn’t ready, yet, for sex, he had left her almost instantly. It was painfully clear in the fact that Sherlock was  the quintessential heartbreaker and Molly had fallen for him.

 

Mycroft was a heartbreaker too, but not in the same way as Sherlock.

 

Mycroft was a heartbreaker whose sole constant in life had abandoned him and disappeared off the face of the earth, which made him

, Molly soon realised, a heartbreaker having his heart broken.

 

\---------------------

 

Over the next couple of months, Molly found herself having a lot of dinners with Mycroft.

 

She didn’t really know why. Mycroft was always the one to initiate contact, after the Sherlock’s strange email, and the meeting in the sinister-looking building. After that meeting, they had had dinner in a small bistro that served the best risotto that Molly had ever tasted, and that she knew was probably more expensive than Mycroft was letting on. The man himself had barely eaten anything himself, and Molly noticed the precise, pointed way that he took the few bites that he ate. Molly didn’t have to be doctor to know this was a man who, well, was very conscious of his weight. This didn’t make much sense to Molly, because Mycroft, like Sherlock, seemed that he could pushed over by a strong gust of wind. But Molly knew, the way she somehow knew a lot of things, that there was a lot more to this Holmes brother, too. It was in the fact that he wore a very obvious wedding band on his finger, but on his right hand instead of his left, and the way he looked around himself, at his environment as if was assessing it for danger and escape routes. It was in the way his eyes shone when Molly said something that she knew Mycroft would consider intelligent or particularly out of the ordinary. She knew it because his whole face seemed to just, well, _lift_ in a way that Molly knew he did not realise.

 

But Molly also knew there was something amazing to this brother too. He was not like Sherlock, who displayed his knowledge to the world, as if it would be painful to hold it in his head for longer than a second; Mycroft was secretive, had that look that said he had knowledge that could easily destroy everything you know in a second, but just smiled and assessed.

 

Molly was smart enough to know this, know that this quietly sinister and yet so expressive Holmes was probably lot more dangerous than Sherlock ever was. But when Mycroft called to ask if she was free for lunch so they could talk about whether she had had any more contact from Sherlock, Molly said yes. When Anthea popped out of nowhere, her blackberry pings announcing her arrival, and told Molly monotonously to get into the black Jaguar so she could be taken to yet another creepy and secret location, Molly never objected.

 

Molly didn’t really know what this all meant. They talked, mostly, about Sherlock. They talked, almost as often, about Molly’s safety, which Mycroft seemed to think should be the worst of her worries. It was, but not all at the same time. Mycroft assured her again and again that she would be safe, and that it was his duty to make sure that she was, and that whoever was after her would not be able to get near her. It didn’t stop the nightmares, but it was enough. It had to be enough, because until Sherlock told them more, there was nothing else.

 

But more than her own safety- when she could stop thinking about how someone out there hated her enough to want her hurt or maybe even dead- she was worried about Mycroft himself.

 

Maybe, Molly had thought a few weeks after the meeting in the building, Mycroft talked to her a lot, for a specific reason. Molly had been in love with Sherlock, for years and maybe still was. Mycroft, no matter how secretive and silent he was, obviously and undeniably loved his brother as much as an older sibling could.

 

Maybe, Molly thought again, maybe Mycroft just wanted to talk to someone who understood what it felt like. She did, she really did.

 

She understood what it was like to love someone that didn’t love you back, especially when they had become your entire world.

 

\--------------------------

On the day of Sherlock’s email, and with the stench of dampness still sinking into Molly’s skin, Mycroft Holmes took her to what was probably the quaintest little bistro she had ever seen.

 

‘T-This place isn’t that far from where I live’, Molly said, looking around. ‘How have I never seen it before?’

 

Mycroft looked down at her, before nodding at a waiter, who ushered them to their seats. In a few seconds, Molly found herself sitting at a small table, in a private corner of the room.

 

‘I find that people are very capable of sight, but less so of observation’, Mycroft said, finally. ‘Sight provides clarity of thought, while observation would mean looking deeper into the issue, and thus mudding one’s mind with what is wrong with the pictures. Humans, as a general rule, wish to remain ignorant of the darker aspects of their lives, I’m afraid’.

 

Molly thought about this while she played idly with a breadstick in a little glass next to her.

 

‘But you don’t? I mean’, Molly said, stammering over her thoughts. ‘You’re…like Sherlock.’

 

Mycroft stayed silent. So Molly carried on.

 

‘Y-You deduce things’, Molly finished. ‘Don’t you? You have that-that look’.

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow, and his eyes focussed on her. Molly found this strangely unsettling, unused to having such attention put on her. A lot of things were strange about Mycroft, really, and also unsettling, but Molly realised that it didn’t seem to bother her. After everything that had happened, everything that she had done, she was trusting this man for inexplicable reasons with, essentially, her life.

 

‘I need to ask’, Mycroft said, carefully. He folded his hands under his chin. ‘What look would that be?’

 

‘I…I don’t know’, Molly said, blushing for no reason. She felt stupid. ‘Like…I don’t know’.

 

Mycroft just stared at her.

 

‘Like, um’, Molly tried again. ‘Like you’re seeing through me. Things. Everything, I mean’.

 

‘But seeing through you would mean not seeing you at all’, Mycroft said, as if he was stating a fact.

 

‘Yes’, Molly said, unsure of how to continue. Mycroft was still looking at her with a characteristic intensity that she linked to both the Holmes brothers, now. But there was something in the shine of his eyes that that made Molly feel as if he was trying to get into her head. Molly could imagine him pulling at her skull, tugging at it until her head opened to reveal her brain.

 

‘You don’t count’, Mycroft said, suddenly. Molly tried to stop herself from flinching.

 

_Sherlock looked at Molly from the darkness._

_‘You do count’._

‘The look on your face suggests that I am correct’, Mycroft said, matter-of-factly.

 

Molly just looked at him. She didn’t know what to say.

 

‘Quite right, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said. ‘The fact that you do not count pertains to reason that you have, in fact, never been needed to be accounted for in the first place by ordinary people. You have always counted, and thus have been placed upon a pedestal from which no one of unimportance can not see you, and therefore by default you do not count’.

 

_What?_

‘W-What?’, Molly said, her brain hurting. Mycroft was still staring at her, monitoring her every move.

 

‘You underestimate yourself’, Mycroft translated. A waiter came by with menus, but Mycroft shook his head.

 

‘What would you like to eat?’, Mycroft said, pleasantly.

 

‘What? Um’, Molly looked at the menus in the waiter’s hands.

 

‘I’ll have the usual’, Mycroft said swiftly, to the waiter. ‘Dressing on the side, no croutons.’

 

Molly tried not to fuss too much. She looked around herself, and saw a plate being brought to a table nearby.

 

‘Um. R-Risotto please’, Molly said, as fast as possible. The waiter nodded, and walked away.

 

‘Do you come here often?’, Molly said, once the waiter was gone. Mycroft was now looking at his wine glass.

 

‘I seldom have enough time’, Mycroft said. ‘However, my assistant does enjoy the French onion soup, hence I find myself frequenting this bistro at least once a month with her. It bodes well for me to keep her happy, as she decides my schedule.’

 

Molly found that they were staring at each other. Mycroft’s eyes looked oddly young right now, Molly thought. Molly felt like smiling, and she tried to tell herself it was not because of the man in front of her.

 

‘She can be a bit....angry. Sort of’, Molly said, thinking back to the time Anthea had been her assistant. Molly had once made Anthea do the Y-incision on a corpse, which the woman had found difficult to the extreme. Obvious angry at her own ability, Anthea had plunged a little too hard, and broken the breastplate altogether.

 

‘Certainly. I often ponder whether to replace her, but alas’, Mycroft said, sighing. ‘Her capabilities in her field outweigh her many frivolities’.

 

‘Ali-Anthea is a bit fierce’, Molly said. ‘B-But she’s a good person’.

 

Mycroft smiled, an odd expression crossing his face. Molly felt as though she was being compared to something.

 

‘Dr Hooper, if you don’t mind my saying, you have often not been a good judge of character’, Mycroft said bluntly. Molly tried not to bristle, but the image of Jim, of Moriarty, came into her head.

 

‘N-No’, Molly said, before Mycroft could add anything else. ‘But…everyone makes mistakes. I m-made…a big one, a few times. But normally, I know when someone is, well, a good person.’

 

Mycroft didn’t speak for a second.

 

‘In your opinion, am I a good person?’, Mycroft said. His head was tilted, and the dim light of the restaurant didn’t detract from his intense stare.

 

‘I don’t-I don’t know anything about you’, Molly said, honestly. ‘E-Even though you seem to know me. Know things about me, I mean.’

 

‘I have my ways’, Mycroft inserted.

 

‘Yes. Um’, Molly said. ‘I don’t think…’

 

Molly hesitated. Mycroft waited.

 

‘I don’t think you’re a bad person’, Molly said. ‘But I don’t think you try very hard to be good, either. I don’t know’.

 

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly, and his face remained blank, but oddly open. The waiter appeared again, with two steaming plates. The smell of rice and mushrooms filled Molly’s nostrils, and she found that she was ravenous, despite the awkwardness of their current conversation.

 

The waiter walked away once Mycroft nodded at him in thanks.

 

‘How astute of you’, Mycroft said, a faint tilt to his voice. Molly fidgeted at the subtle change in voice.

 

A silence remained between them as they ate, and Molly found that she didn’t mind it. The food was delicious, the risotto smooth and silky, passing easily down her throat. The quiet lulled her in a security that she hadn’t felt in a while. She wondered, briefly, what would have happened if she hadn’t contacted Mycroft about the email, if someone would’ve come to get her, to kill her. She wondered where Sherlock was, and what he had done that had been so damning to her. She wanted to be angry, to scream in fear, but- but….Molly was just really, really tired.

 

‘You are quite safe, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said, suddenly. He was looking down at a piece of chicken in his salad. Molly blinked at him.

 

‘It’s not nice to read people’s minds’, Molly said, feeling slightly cross.

 

‘My apologises’, Mycroft said, the corner of his mouth turned up. ‘May I ask what it is you were thinking about?’

 

Molly felt her face turn red, again, and the cross feeling from before switch to shyness.

 

‘You, um, already know’, Molly said. ‘But I was thinking about Sherlock’.

 

‘You think about Sherlock a lot’, Mycroft said mildly, still looking at his chicken. In his expensive three-piece suit and carefully styled hair, he looked every bit the professional. However, his tone did not match his appearance.

 

‘Sort of’, Molly admitted. ‘But more these days because…that’s all I can do, really.’

 

A lump set in her thought.

 

‘I can’t help him. I don’t know where he-he is’, Molly said, trying to sound as nonchalantly as possible. ‘I miss…I don’t miss him like I should, because all he did was yell at me, and wake me up at 2 in the morning and…but I do, um, miss him. I d-do.’

 

Mycroft was looking at her again. Molly hadn’t known it was possible to keep ones features so still, and yet express so much, at the same time. Mycroft was, Molly knew, frustrated. There was a sadness to his eyes, a downcast look that Molly knew all too well.

 

Maybe Mycroft was as lonely as she was.

 

‘You are in love him’, Mycroft said carefully. ‘It is understandable’.

 

Molly thought it was incredibly awkward to talk about your crush with said crush’s brother.

 

‘N-no’, Molly said. Mycroft, for a second, looked surprised.

 

‘I don’t know’, Molly said helplessly. ‘M-Maybe I still am. But I don’t know if, really, I ever was. Sherlock is just so….’

 

She stopped. An odd thought occurred to her.

 

Molly was going to say that Sherlock was charismatic, but really, he wasn’t. Sherlock was larger than life, swallowing up everything around him, and maybe that was why she had been attracted him. He seemed powerful, all important.

 

It occurred to her that, while Mycroft was not larger than life, he was most definitely charismatic. He had something about him that made Molly talk about things she would normally never say out loud. Despite the awkwardness of their conversation, his odd gestures and piercing stare, Molly didn’t feel out of place, uninteresting, or uncomfortable.

 

‘What was it?’, Mycroft asked. Molly realised she never finished her sentence. She panicked.

 

‘I…..’, Molly said. ‘I lost my train of thought.’

 

Molly could tell that the man didn’t believe her. The silence resumed, and Molly picked up her fork, and attempted to eat again. Mycroft, on the other hand, was still not eating.

 

‘Tell me about yourself, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said, suddenly. Molly nearly choked.

 

‘W-Why?’, Molly said. No one had ever asked her to talk about herself before. ‘You know everything already’.

 

 ‘Profiles of people sometimes do not match the true image of the person in question. I would like to hear it from you, if you do not mind’.

 

‘Um’, Molly said, confused. Why did he want to know about her? ‘O-Okay. What do you want to know?’

 

‘Tell me about your sister’, Mycroft said. ‘You plan to visit her in Guildford for Christmas, next month.’

 

‘Y-um. Yes.’

 

‘Carry on’.

 

So Molly did. Molly talked about her younger sister, and found herself not leaving a single thing out- she talked about their close relationship as children, and the time when it changed. She spoke of being constantly upstaged by her younger, and more beautiful sister, how she had cried when Lydia had had a baby, and then named someone else the godmother, not Molly. She told him that sometimes Lydia still called up, in the middle of the night when the baby was asleep, and the conversations they had were real ones, like they did when they still loved each other.

 

Mycroft said nothing, but he listened. For the first time, in a long time, Molly didn’t feel alone.

\-----------------------------

One week after Sherlock’s email, Anthea had phoned Molly and told her to meet Mycroft at an abandoned caravan that was ten minutes from the temporary flat in which Mycroft had placed her. Molly didn’t question it.

 

Inside the caravan, it was clean and sanitary, and there was a small plastic table and chairs, one of which was already being sat on.

 

‘I don’t want to see my sister’, Molly confessed, in the caravan. ‘I think…if we actually talk, um, face to face, it might be horrible again’.

 

‘Sibling love is a strange thing’, Mycroft said. ‘You wish to protect them, be cared for by them, yet…sometimes it’s equally possible to want to punish them.’

 

‘But you still help Sherlock’, Molly pointed out. ‘You do, don’t you?’

 

Mycroft said nothing, and for a while, they sat in comfortable silence. Molly didn’t know anyone else that she could sit with like this, and not feel awkward- but somehow, with Mycroft, she felt fine.

 

‘I have arranged for a thorough search of your flat’, Mycroft said, into the silence. ‘So far, there is nothing to suggest ill activity, or harm to your safety. However, we will keep on looking. I promise that there will be no compromise to your privacy.’

 

Panicking a little, she tried to think of anything that was in her flat that was more embarrassing than a ratty dressing gown, and a sketch book of Toby’s photos. Molly hoped that if they did, Mycroft wouldn’t bring it up, or think bad of her. His opinion of her mattered, Molly realised.

 

‘Thank you’, she said, simply.

 

\--------------------------------------

Two weeks after Sherlock’s email, Molly was on her day off. She had decided to go shopping, for the first time in a while, and was trying to think of a decent present for her sister. Perhaps a nice dress, because Lydia did love to show off her legs, or maybe some make up. Lydia loved nail polish, Molly remembered. Sometimes it was hard to admit that she didn’t actually know Lydia all that well these days.

 

Giving up for the fifth time, Molly’s stomach rumbled, and she headed for the nearest Burger King. Calories be damned, she had thought.

 

Just as she was ordering a cheeseburger and chips, there was a hard tap on her shoulder. Anthea stood behind her, looking at her phone.

 

‘Sir wants to know if there’s been any contact’, Anthea said, not once looking at Molly. Molly was confused and bewildered because she was in a line at _Burger King_ , and Anthea, dressed in all her normal finery, really shouldn’t be here.

 

‘No!’, Molly squeaked. ‘I would phone if I d-did’.

 

Anthea clicked a message.

 

‘You have an appointment with Mr Holmes in 5 minutes,’ Anthea said.

 

‘But I said I don’t-‘, Molly protested.

 

‘Five minutes, come with me’, Anthea interrupted. ‘Mr Holmes needs to talk to someone who isn’t the Mayor of London, and you are convenient’.

 

Molly quickly paid for her burger, and rushed after Anthea.

 

‘D-Did he say he wants to meet me’, Molly asked.

 

‘No’, Anthea said.

 

‘Then why am I meeting him?’, Molly said, confused, as they got into the car.

 

‘Like I said’, Anthea sighed.  ‘You aren’t the Mayor of London’.

 

Molly was now very confused, and really quite annoyed.

 

‘Today was my day off’, Molly said. ‘And My-Mr Holmes will just kick me out once I get there’.

 

‘No he won’t’, Anthea said. She looked at Molly’s Burger King paper bag.

 

‘I want a chip’, Anthea demanded. Molly blinked, and handed her the bag, Anthea removed a few chips, and then handed it back.

 

They stayed silent for the rest of the journey, and once they arrived at a stately looking building, Anthea walked her inside, until they came to the door of a room.

 

‘He is stressed’, Anthea said, her face softening uncharacteristically. ‘He doesn’t say much, but I know he does like you company.’

 

‘But we don’t even-‘, Molly said.

 

‘Just sit in there’, Anthea interrupted. ‘He won’t say anything, but it will help him, and make my life easier for the next week’.

 

With that, Molly was pushed inside. The room itself was painted a deep red, and filled with mahogany wood. There was a fire lit, and a large desk in front of her. Mycroft Holmes looked at her in surprise.

 

‘Um’, Molly said, nervously. ‘Hello’.

 

‘Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said. His face looked more lined and creased than usual, his eyes dulled and blank. Two empty tumblers and a pile of papers were laid out in front of him.

 

‘Is anything the matter?’, Mycroft said, seeming concerned. ‘Anthea did not tell me to expect you’.

 

‘No, um, no!’, Molly squeaked. ‘I don’t…I’m just, um here.’

 

Mycroft stared at her. Molly looked at the floor, feeling like her face was on fire.

 

‘Please sit down, then’, Mycroft said, in the silence. Molly walked awkwardly forward, and sat on a chair opposite to Mycroft.

 

Mycroft continued to observe her.

 

‘Anthea sent you’, Mycroft said eventually.

 

‘I-er. Yes’, Molly confirmed, fiddling with the burger king pack still on her lap.

 

Mycroft stared at her for a few more seconds, but then looked down at his papers. Molly sat patiently, looking at the fireplace to her side. She heard Mycroft rest his hand loudly on the table. He looked, Molly thought, like a man who wanted to fight with all the will he had, but also found that he had no energy left to do so.

 

‘Sometimes’, Mycroft confessed quietly. ‘I hate my job’.

 

‘Sometimes I hate dead people’, Molly found herself saying back. She shut her mouth, and felt horrified. But, surprisingly, Mycroft laughed.

 

‘I believe that is the problem’, Mycroft said, laughter gone, but a small smile still on his face. ‘Sometimes the things we love the most are also the things that instil hatred in us like nothing else is capable’.

 

Molly’s stomach rumbled loudly. Mycroft’s eyebrow raised, and Molly looked longingly at the burger bag in her lap. There was nothing for it, she supposed.

 

Molly opened the Burger King bag, and pulled out a wrapped burger. Quickly unwrapping it, she tore it in half.

 

‘Do you want…do you want half of my burger?’, Molly asked, her face flushed. She felt oddly like a small child offering her toy as token to friendship, to another small child.

 

Mycroft looked torn for a moment, and looked down at his papers. Then he looked up again at Molly.

 

‘Actually’, Mycroft said. ‘I believe I do’.

 

As they ate, Mycroft turned to Molly.

 

‘I think you should start calling me Mycroft’, he said, his voice different from before. ‘If you don’t mind me calling you Molly?’

 

Molly nodded, and relaxed.

 

\------------------------------------

 

Two weeks and 3 days after Sherlock’s last contact, Molly was sitting opposite Mycroft at a small hot dog stand, near the Thames. They sat on a bench, and neither of them had a hot dog. Mycroft looked even more tired than when Molly had seen him three days ago, and she couldn’t help but feel worried for the man that seemed so powerful all the time, but was now falling apart in front of her.

 

‘I can’t find Sherlock’, Mycroft said, finally, for the first time. Until now, Mycroft had not said the actual words to Molly, or even to himself, probably.

He said the words with the air of a man that had failed at the most important mission of his life.

 

Molly knew she shouldn’t. Not with someone like Mycroft Holmes, who seemed to have an invisible barrier around him. But Molly reached out, and placed her hand on his softly, and then quickly tried to remove it, but found she couldn’t when Mycroft hand seemed to loosen up under her fingers.

 

‘It’s…’, Molly said, her hands trembling. ‘It’s okay’.

 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, and they both listened to the sound of the water.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

Two weeks and 6 days after Sherlock’s email, Mycroft took her back to the bistro she had loved, but Molly found herself playing with the pasta on her fork. Food at the bistro was delicious, and the pasta dish in question was one Molly really loved, but it had really been a long day. The fact that Molly now had nightmares about being attacked and about both the Holmes brothers, made it a little hard to eat. She could pretend that she wasn’t worried, but- the thing was- it was hard not to be afraid. She wasn’t Sherlock or John, who ran after criminals as a day job, or Anthea and Mycroft, who obviously controlled the country. She was just a pathologist, someone who was really no one in the main scheme of it all, and there was nothing she could do to protect others and herself anymore.

 

She thought about Sherlock, who had thrown himself off a building and was fighting against terrible people, for his friends.

 

‘What if you can’t get hold of him? Um, Sherlock, I mean? At all?’, Molly asked Mycroft. Mycroft, who had been playing with his own food, looked up at her.

 

‘Then I shall just have to keep looking, I’m afraid’, Mycroft said, looking oddly far away. Sad, Molly thought.

 

_You look sad, when you think he can’t see you._

‘My brother may be a genius, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said. ‘But so am I. If need be, I shall go looking for him myself, legwork be damned’.

 

Molly tried not to look upset. Mycroft was her only link to Sherlock, and her only link to- to what had really happened almost eleven months ago.

 

Mycroft smiled, rather strangely. He put a small piece of bread in his mouth, and chewed elegantly.

 

‘There is no need to be upset, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said. ‘Sherlock will come back alive, of that I am certain’.

 

Molly just stared at him.

 

\---------------------------------

 

One month after Sherlock’s email, and over eleven months after Sherlock’s fall, Molly was moving back into her own flat again, after having stayed in a much bigger flat that was much closer to her work place. Although Molly knew she would miss the spaciousness of the temporary flat, and the fact that she had been able to sleep for an hour longer because of the reduced length of her morning journey’s to work, Molly was glad to be back in her own space. Her flat smelt homely and welcoming, and there was a coffee stain on the carpet from a year ago. There were cat hairs on the sofa, and an abandoned pair of tights stuffed behind her bookshelf in her bedroom; it was all hers, and she had missed it.

 

She began quickly packing for her Christmas at Lydia’s, trying to push past her misgivings. She would take what she got - she had dealt with much worse, and there were people in far worse situations with their own siblings. Involuntarily, she thought of Mycroft.

 

She didn’t really understand what was happening, but she was starting to really enjoy the man’s company. Mycroft never spoke much, or even ate much when they were in each other’s company, but Molly found that, when he did talk, it was quite brilliant. He had recently started telling her a little bit about his and Sherlock’s childhood. Not a lot, definitely not enough, but something. And it helped her understand a little more about why they were what they were. There was a ….a firmness of character in Mycroft that Sherlock did not have. Mycroft was definitely someone who knew his own mind. Someone you did not mess with. It made sense, what with his maybe-James-Bond job, that Mycroft was an influential man, but that did not detract from the fact that he was very obviously human.

 

Molly quickly tied up her hair, shoved a few more pieces of clothing in the travelling bag, and walked to her door to check for any recent mail. Anthea had been forwarding her mail to her, but in the two days before Molly moving back to her own flat, Molly had told Anthea that she didn’t have to anymore.

 

Molly flicked through several envelopes of bills that she had already paid, an invitation to a colleague’s wedding, a couple of takeaway menus and….

 

A postcard with a picture of the Jesus statue in Brazil.

 

With a sticker of a deer-stalker on his head.

 

\---------------------------

 

Anthea was walking briskly towards his closed door, Mycroft noted.

 

 **Read:** It had taken her 4 seconds less time to reach him from her post to his office, which was 2 seconds shorter than her usual time. Not a large range, but very significant. Indicating new information, urgent information. The Mayor of London business could be of the issue, but the rapid pace of his footsteps suggested that was not the case. Anthea was excited, but the flick of her hair indicated that it was not for herself. For Mycroft, accordingly.

 

Another pair of more timid footsteps followed Anthea’s.

 

 **Read:** Molly Hooper.

 

Anthea knocked on his door, but didn’t wait for him to answer. She opened it, and Molly followed his assistant into the room.

 

 **Read:** Molly’s cheeks are pink, meaning good news, at least something she perceives as good news. Her shy expression indicates she does not want to assume, but assume she has. The small piece of cardboard or paper in her hands…a postcard? Ah.

 

‘I t-think’, Molly said, her voice high. ‘I think Sherlock’s given us a location’.

 

Mycroft didn’t know what the bolt of lightening in his chest meant, and he was the one that knew everything.

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s for now, folks! Okay, now for the bad news which I chickened out of writing in the A/N- the next chapter will be in 2 weeks or so, rather than the customary less than one week thing I’ve been doing so far. This is because I have my main Master’s degree exam coming up and am also working on the side, so I have had no time to do anything other than eat, work, email my beta and sleep in the past two weeks. I’m glad I had the presence of mind to write this chapter quite a while ago, knowing that I won’t be able to around this time, so I could at least post this. As soon as the exams are done, I’ll get to writing- I am determined to keep the updates regular after that. Until then, all I can say is sorry.


	8. The Bees Have Declared A War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also do not own Mycroft’s manipulation, Molly’s excitement, or Kerala.
> 
> Author's Notes: HELLO! I feel like it has been forever, when it’s actually been about 3 weeks- one week longer than I said, oops! My exams are finished now (good riddance), and I wasn't well for a bit after that, my immune system always seems to break down very conveniently after my exams are over.  
> Also, please don’t take Mycroft’s deductions seriously in this once. Seriously, I made it all up. I don’t know if any of that stuff is true. After this chapter, everything will be moving a little more swiftly! 
> 
> As always, this chapter was beta’d by the formidable Adalind, who knows much better than me *bows to her*. 
> 
> The title of this chapter is taken from Of Monsters and Men’s ‘Dirty Paws’- this band seriously got me through my exams, and for that I wanted to name a chapter of my story after them. 
> 
> EDIT: Mycroft’s cologne/perfume I mentioned here briefly is actually based on Tom Ford’s Oud Wood Men’s perfume. I have no idea if Mycroft would wear something like this (it’s certainly expensive enough), but he will here. Seriously, go and smell the stuff in your nearest department store. It’s very….um, I like it. I like it a lot.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

When Mycroft was seventeen and Sherlock was ten, their relationship was on the brink of the abyss that it would eventually become. Mycroft had been admitted to university a year early, to Cambridge, to the vocation he had known he would receive for years.

 

When Mycroft announced this at dinner, his parents had been pleased, proud of what they knew to be his future. After all, as everyone had always said, Mycroft had inherited his mother’s intelligence, her quiet confidence of character that meant he was sure to succeed. Their society was starting to beam down on him, and Mycroft had stayed silent, listening to the praise. His mother hugged and kissed him, radiating happiness as his father stood beside her, his trademark transparent and open smile pasted on his face. His father was not the intelligent one, at least people used to think, and they had told Mycroft. Everyone seemed to agree that it was lucky that both of sons had inherited their mother’s brain.

 

‘The government is full of idiots’, Sherlock had declared loudly at that dinner. ‘Why become one of them?’

 

‘You’ll understand one day, Sherlock’, Mycroft had promised. ‘I’ll be sure to secure employment for you, when you do’.

 

Sherlock snorted.

 

‘Don’t hold your breath’, Sherlock said, derisively. ‘I have no need to flaunt power by holding it over the unwashed hoards’.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes.

 

‘Politicians don’t become the government because they are clever, Mycroft’, Sherlock had said, in a strange voice. ‘They do because they can lie, they can threaten, they can manipulate. Because there is something about themselves they can’t stand. So they hide it under a nice shiny title’.

 

‘Nonsense, Sherlock,’ Mycroft had said. ‘I honestly do not know where you get these conspiracy theories’.

 

Sherlock scowled.

 

‘It’s not a conspiracy theory if it’s true, Mycroft’, Sherlock hissed. ‘It’s not untrue if I can see it right here, right now’.

 

Mycroft looked away, at his father laughing in a carefree manner with his mother, out of earshot, and once more he wondered how a man with normal intelligence and objectively little to offer had ever attracted his eccentric mother.

 

‘How did you really get into Cambridge, Mycroft?’, Sherlock said, quietly. Mycroft felt as though he had spat it right into his ear.

 

_What do you have to hide Mycroft?_

 

Ten, twenty years later, and Mycroft was sitting in his richly decorated office, trapped by the cage of his very success. Admired from afar, and feared up close. He looked at Molly Hooper who stood in front of him in his mind, frozen with Sherlock’s postcard in her hand, like an artist’s still life. The hope that she held, the goodness that she so obviously saw in humanity would make her easy to control, to bend to his will, should he wish to. Like he had done so many times, to so many others, sometimes with their consent, but more often without. Rare individuals like Molly Hooper reminded Mycroft, in the darkness of his own thoughts, of exactly how much blood he had on his hands. Directly, and indirectly.

 

Unimportant, Mycroft stated to himself. Not if it is for a greater good.

 

But this was not for a greater good, Mycroft knew. This curiosity, this- this interest- that Molly Hooper inspired slithered on his skin, coiled inside him like a sin waiting to happen. She was different from the other women he knew, the ones that became dull to his senses in the minute details he could see them in.

 

She could be useful, if he could only understand who she was. What was she, her motivations and breaking points?

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, Sherlock appearing in his mind gallery, haunting and looming.

 

_‘I will not get sucked in’, Mycroft insisted. ‘I will not allow it’._

In Mycroft’s mind, Sherlock laughed, the sound echoing in the dinner table of their childhood.

 

_Caring isn’t an advantage, is it, brother? Sherlock sneered, his coat falling around as he sat on the chair opposite Mycroft. ‘But curiosity did really kill the cat. I suppose you must try everything once.’_

_‘Shut up’, Mycroft said, his voice low and grating. ‘You know me. Interest is another word for delusion. I am not the deluded one, Sherlock’._

_‘I didn’t say you were deluded, Mycroft’, Sherlock said carelessly, looking bored now._

_Sherlock turned towards Mycroft, his eyes shining as he sat up and looked at him._

_‘You’re not deluded’, Sherlock said again. ‘You’re a manipulator. An opportunist.’_

_Sherlock leaned over the table, towards Mycroft._

_‘You don’t deduce, not really. That’s what I do’, Sherlock said. ‘What you do is take advantage.’_

Mycroft’s mind gallery changed back to Molly and Anthea, Sherlock’s postcard. Mycroft watched Molly frozen in place, with the postcard held out. Sherlock stepped out from behind him, in his mind, standing by Molly.

 

_‘What do you see, when you see Molly Hooper?’, Sherlock said, smirking. ‘An opportunity?’_

_Mycroft said nothing._

_‘Ah. I get it now’, Sherlock said. ‘ That’s the problem. No opportunity. No advantage. Just….interest. I never knew you liked…girls.’_

_‘I do not like ‘girls’’ Mycroft spat, his blank face breaking. ‘I do not ‘like’ people. Tedious behaviour never suited you, brother mine.’_

_‘I know, ‘caring is not an advantage’, tra la la la, it was boring the first time’, Sherlock said. ‘That’s not what this is. So what is it?’_

Sherlock circled Molly.

 

_‘She’s my colleague, you know’, Sherlock said. ‘I should be angry with you. You can’t have her. You don’t even like her.’_

_Mycroft glared at Sherlock._

_‘No. No!’, Sherlock said, jumping suddenly in front of Mycroft. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’_

_Sherlock laughed loudly._

_‘You, with all your power,’ Sherlock said. ‘You draw everyone with your so-called charisma. Everyone but her. You may be the smart one, she likes me. And it annoys you because you don’t understand why’._

The image of the room disappeared, and they were back in their childhood home, at the dinner table with their mother and father.

 

_‘Human emotions’, Sherlock said. ‘The one thing you don’t understand. That I don’t understand. But we don’t need to, because we can play that game better than the humans’._

_‘It’s not a game, Sherlock’, Mycroft said. ‘Nor am I interested in Molly Hooper’._

_‘Maybe,’ Sherlock said. ‘But she is research, a project to occupy your mind. Because she’s different, and I saw it before you did.’_

_‘Molly Hooper is not different’, Mycroft insisted. ‘I have no interest in…researching her’._

_‘Why not? You already spend entirely too much time and energy talking to her’, Sherlock said. ‘I wish you would just make your own friends, and stop stealing mine’._

_‘I do not need friends’, Mycroft said. ‘How many times? She’s not your friend either’._

_Sherlock looked at him. ‘She thinks of you as a friend. You know it’._

_‘I do not need friends’, Mycroft repeated._

_‘Maybe you are deluded’, Sherlock said, sarcastically. ‘Why would anybody mind if the great Mycroft Holmes had a friend?’_

_Sherlock looked at their parents next to them._

_‘You don’t need to manipulate her to make her a friend’, Sherlock said. ‘But that’s what you do. It’s how you got into Cambridge. It’s how you became the British government, all the people you slept with and stepped on. Now it’s what you are.’_

_Mycroft just stared at him._

_‘What happens if you manipulate someone who already has some regard for you?’, Sherlock said, quietly. ‘Someone who already thinks of you as a friend? If you…play with her, what can you make her do? Will it work?’_

_Sherlock looked at their mother and father sitting frozen besides them, happiness and pride stilled on their father’s face._

_‘Perhaps we both inherited mummy’s intelligence’, Sherlock said. ‘But you got father’s soul’._

_Mycroft looked at his father’s transparent smile, which didn’t seem so transparent anymore._

_‘How do you think he got mother to love someone like him, after all?’, Sherlock said._

_The thought echoed in the room, bouncing off the makeshift walls._

_‘Love is a chemical defect’, Mycroft hissed. ‘And certainly not something I wish to trifle with.’_

_‘Don’t worry’, Sherlock said, quietly. ‘Molly Hooper would never love you. There’s no danger of that.’_

_Sherlock stood up, and opened the door of the dining room._

_‘That isn’t an emotion you have ever inspired, Mycroft’, Sherlock said, and exited the room. ‘Don’t go thinking that you ever will’._

_\--------------------------------_

 

Molly knew her hand was shaking, her heart was racing and her brain was practically vibrating. She knew she must look like a child, excited by her first birthday party invitation, but the months- months of not knowing what she should be doing, whether Sherlock was really alive- had started to wear on her, tire her in a way she had not been since her early days in medical school.

 

She held the little piece of card in her unsteady hand, and watched Mycroft carefully. His face flashed through a wide variety of emotions, and what was brilliant, really brilliant, was that Molly could see them all. The shock, the happiness, the miniscule dash of sadness, mixed with anger and worry- Molly could see them, and she knew, finally had evidence, that Mycroft Holmes was _human._

 

‘I…think we have a location’, Molly said, knowing her voice was as shaky as her hand. Her voice echoed in her head, and all she could hear was the thick cut of excitement that ran through it.

 

Mycroft said nothing, but stood up from his desk and walked to Molly, gesturing for her to give him the postcard. He took the card gingerly, holding it with such carefulness that Molly usually only saw in grieved relatives handling the dead bodies of their loved ones.

 

_But Sherlock was alive._

Mycroft still said nothing, and when Molly looked around, she suddenly realised that Anthea had disappeared.

 

‘It seems’, Mycroft finally said. ‘That we do, indeed, have a possible location.’

 

‘S-so, um’, Molly said, trying to not seem too excited. ‘He’s there? In Brazil, maybe?’

 

Mycroft looked at her, and suddenly his eyes had a suspicious glint to them. He turned the card in his hands multiple times, and brought it up to his nose, and sniffed it once in a somehow professional manner. Molly’s glaze was drawn to Mycroft’s right hand, where his gold wedding band almost sparkled. Molly realised that she hadn’t yet asked him about the ring, but she had long concluded that Mycroft wasn’t married. She tried not to think too much about that.

 

‘Brazil is certainly what this postcard indicates’, Mycroft said, his voice measured.

 

Molly stood on her spot, her brain buzzing. She tried not to glare at, Mycroft, who didn’t seem to want to give her any more information.

 

‘So’, Molly said, pointedly. ‘So you must know where to look now. You-you can find Sherlock? You can…find out whether he’s okay?’

 

‘Undoubtedly’, Mycroft said, thoughtfully, not looking at Molly.

 

Molly’s hands were now shaking and sweating at her sides, and she tried not to scream out loud. She wanted, she really wanted to reach up on the tips of her toes and pull Mycroft’s head to face her, shake him until he would _pay attention to her._ Molly swallowed the ball of acid that had gathered in her throat, as she pushed away the image and the strange jealousy that had filled her. This was about Sherlock, she reminded herself, not, not…her. Not even Mycroft, really.

 

But, allowing her to give into one of her frustrations, Molly reached up, and pulled the postcard out of Mycroft’s hands.

 

‘Tell me!’, Molly said, louder than she wanted to, her voice shrill. ‘I-I want to know what you’re going to do about it. Um, about Sherlock. If we know he’s in Brazil, this will cut down the search, won’t it? You can find him and make sure he’s safe! You can…’

 

Mycroft blinked at Molly, eying her with new interest. After several seconds, Molly grew fidgety, and Mycroft spoke.

 

‘This postcard will, in due notice, focus my search somewhat’, Mycroft said, slowly. ‘However, to narrow the search to Brazil would be a foolish mistake on my behalf’.

 

Molly stared at Mycroft, confused. She stopped fidgeting.

 

‘B-But why?’, Molly said, her voice still higher than she would like. ‘ _He’s in Brazil_!’

‘I’m afraid you are mistaken, my dear Molly’, Mycroft said, subdued, carefully plucking the postcard out of Molly’s fingers. ‘Sherlock is not in Brazil’.

 

Just for a second, a couple of seconds, Molly drew blank, as the musk of something woody and exotic filled her nose, becoming fainter as Mycroft moved away again.

 

‘Wha- um’, Molly said, clearing her throat. An odd tingly feeling was moving rapidly through her shoulders and arms, down to her chest. She knew she was blushing.

 

Clearing her throat again, Molly suddenly realised what Mycroft had said. The man himself was looking at Molly as though she was slow, and was patiently waiting for her to catch up.

 

_What is wrong with me?_

Molly felt like an idiot, and forced herself to look at Mycroft properly.

 

‘Wh-How. How?’, Molly stuttered. ‘How can he not be in Brazil? The post-‘

 

‘Sherlock is in India, most likely in the southern regions’, Mycroft said, firmly.

 

Molly blinked. ‘But-‘

 

‘I may be wrong’, Mycroft continued. ‘However the stain on the right corner of the card suggests that I am, indeed, correct in my assumptions’.

 

Molly opened her mouth, and then closed it.

 

‘India?’, Molly said, finally. ‘I don’t…I don’t understand’.

 

Mycroft smiled at her, in a way Molly knew he meant to be kind.

 

‘It’s not important’, Mycroft said. ‘You need not worry. All that you need to know is that my brother appears to be trying to divert my attentions, and has failed to do so. He is under the deluded impression that he is smarter than me. But he forgets, I’m afraid’.

 

Molly felt her heart beat faster.

 

‘He forgets what?’, Molly said. Mycroft smiled at her, his expression no longer kind, but somehow more hidden, and carefully formed.

 

‘That **I** am the smart one’, Mycroft said, roughly. ‘I always have been, to Sherlock’s chagrin’.

 

Molly didn’t know what to say to that. As far as she was aware, Sherlock never really mentioned any family member to her, but various other people- Mrs Hudson, John, Greg Lestrade- had mentioned a brother, and all that she could glean from it was that their relationship was nota happy one.

 

In her mind, she couldn’t understand how two brothers had turned out so differently. Sherlock was always at war with himself and others - Molly knew, and she constantly told herself, that he was different, bigger and better than herself, and so he didn’t know how to deal with people he considered beneath him. And then came along Mycroft - the elder brother, the smart one, according to himself. But surely, if he were smarter, he should have more trouble dealing with people like herself. Yet Mycroft was nothing if not polite, quiet, and well-mannered to a fault.

 

Still… Molly was aware that the things she did not know about Mycroft Holmes could fill several books, , and so she tried hard not to- not to assume. John had warned her against him, and so had Sherlock, which was worrying in itself. She had loved Sherlock for so long, at least she had thought she did, but the more she lived her life without him, the more she realised that she did not miss the most crucial side of him; the one that often cut her down to just a small part of what she was. She did not miss him being rude, mean and dismissing her without a thought. She knew, she really did, that she was worth more than that.

 

But she wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t going to assume that Mycroft was just a, well, nicer version of Sherlock. The brothers were nothing alike, Molly told herself.

 

Molly blinked, and drew herself back into the conversation.

 

‘How-How do you know?’, Molly said. Mycroft looked at her, surprised.

 

‘Quite obviously,’ he said, slowly. ‘All the information that is required can be found on the postcard’.

 

‘No’, Molly said, more firmly, trying to not feel small. ‘I mean, w-what is it on the postcard that told you Sherlock is in India? It’s a postcard of Brazil, to me, anyways’.

 

Mycroft considered her for a moment. ‘You want me to tell you my deductions?’

 

‘Yes!’, Molly said, relieved that he understood. ‘How do you know?’

 

Mycroft turned away from her, looking down at his fingers. His shoulders became rigid in a way they weren’t before.

 

‘I am not Sherlock, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said. Molly noted the returned use of her last name and title. ‘I do not...I do not require attention and an audience to my abilities, nor do I wish to make a spectacle of myself to the general public.’

 

‘No!’, Molly said, reaching out and then stopping herself. Mycroft was now leaning against his desk, facing her, but not looking at her. He began to type something out on his phone.

 

‘That’s not…I didn’t mean that’, Molly said. ‘Sometimes…it’s nice to let other people know what you’re thinking. Sometimes, I mean. And I’m not the general public, and I’m-I’m not an audience.’

 

Mycroft looked at her, and Molly tried not to flush red again.

 

 

‘I just m-meant’, Molly carried on. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated. And, erm, you don’t seem like you are, a lot. But I don’t know, of course’.

 

Molly wished she could run, wished Anthea would come in, anything to interrupt, well, _this._ Not looking at Mycroft, Molly was surprised when she heard a rustle of trousers as they moved towards her, and the slide of the postcard as it was pushed between her fingers.

 

‘Observe what you can not see’, Mycroft said, softly. ‘Most generic postcards have a glossy sheen to them on one side, are made from white card, intended for tourists. However, this one, as you can see, does not have gloss coating nor any coating whatsoever, and is yellowing. Thus, we can presume it was not aimed at tourists, not bought from a generic tourist resort or other such destinations.’

 

Mycroft turned the card over in Molly’s hands, his fingers brushing hers slightly.

 

‘Most postcards are made of 13 pt cardstocks,’ Mycroft said. ‘This one is 14 pt, indicating it needed to be durable, and possibly came from rougher travel path than South America to England. The size of card is an inch larger than the regulatory size used in South America, and is more presumptive of an Asian destination. My next guess would be Thailand, possibly the north- Chiang Rai, specifically, from indented right bottom corner, a trademark symbol of long distance package in the region. However, this is incorrect.’

 

Mycroft gently pulled the card from Molly’s fingers, and held it to her nose.

 

‘Rich Indian ink’, Mycroft said. ‘Made from _masi_ , very uncommonly used these days, even in India, but still used in the smaller, southern regions. Masi is made from tar, pitch, sometimes also turpentine. Can you smell it?’

 

Molly sniffed hard, mimicking Mycroft’s earlier actions. She could smell a faint coal-like scent, and something like burnt rubber. She knew that was probably the tar.

 

‘Y-Yes’, Molly said. ‘I think so. You found all that from the smell of ink?’

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft said, now smiling openly. ‘Also, the chai stain on the corner, as I previously mentioned. The cardamom and cinnamon in the stain are quite distinct.’

 

‘Yes’, Molly said, although she didn’t really think so. ‘Of course. So…what happens now?’

 

‘My brother appears to want to play a game’, Mycroft said, thoughtfully. ‘If we must’.

 

‘Play a game?’, Molly said. ‘But he might need your help!’

 

‘He most certainly needs my help’, Mycroft said, his eyes darkening. ‘However, I don’t think he has realised it yet. He is well enough to toy with me, and so he shall have to ask for my aid- suffice to say, only then shall I give it’.

 

‘But he could be in trouble!’, Molly said, just as there was a knock on the door. Mycroft gestured for Molly to sit down on the chair behind her, as he swiftly moved to sit behind his desk.

 

‘Come in!’, Mycroft said, his voice loud. Anthea strode in, file in her hand.

 

‘South-west India, Kerala is most likely’, Anthea said rapidly, as Mycroft read. Molly felt out of place, but couldn’t get rid of the buzzing in her head.

 

‘Near the Kadalundi river?’, Mycroft said, firmly.

 

Anthea nodded, and typed on her phone. ‘Yes, we think so. Should I send..?’

 

‘No’, Mycroft said, shortly. ‘Not yet.’

 

Molly gaped at him.

 

‘What?’, Molly said, not understanding. ‘You need to help him!’

Mycroft raised his eyebrow at her, but Molly could see something off in his expression. He looked….sad, somehow, Molly thought. Uncomfortable.

 

‘It appears my brother has not forgiven me’, Mycroft said, quickly, as thought he was afraid to let the words linger. ‘I shall have to force him to do so.’

 

‘Forgive you? F-Forgive you for what?’, Molly said, uncertain.

 

Mycroft looked at her briefly, before nodding at Anthea, who left the room.

 

‘I may be the smart one’, Mycroft said, his voice tired. ‘But I am not entirely without fault. Balance of probability, I suppose.’

 

Molly wasn’t entirely sure what Mycroft meant, but she was aware that she had just witnessed a Holmes admit to not being perfect.

 

‘Everyone, um’, Molly started. ‘Everyone is stupid once, you know’.

 

Mycroft stared at Molly, and then smiled.

 

‘I would not go that far’, Mycroft said, archly. ‘I am certainly not stupid’.

 

‘Neither am I’, Molly said, quickly. ‘So I want to know what you’re going to do with Sherlock’.

 

Mycroft looked down at the table, his fingers dancing over the folder.

 

‘I intend…’, Mycroft said. ‘I intend to show him that he is not alone. That there is help, should he need it.’

 

‘You care’, Molly said before she could stop. She mentally slapped herself when Mycroft looked at her sharply.

 

‘I am not a sentimental man’, Mycroft said, shortly. ‘I am not overtly given over to brotherly compassion, or any compassion, as a rule of my occupation.’

 

Molly felt as though she had been punched in the mouth. Her eyes burned and the hairs on her neck became over-sensitive, and she willed herself not to say anything stupid.

 

She felt Mycroft looking at her, assessing her.

 

‘My apologies, Molly’, Mycroft said softly. ‘I did not mean to seem angry.’

 

‘It’s none of my business if- if you don’t- if you aren’t a compassionate person. I don’t care if you’re angry with me, because I’m not important here’, Molly said. ‘But you do care. I know you and Sherlock seem to think you’re both above that, above us, but you care about your brother, and now all you’re doing is acting like his life is a game!’

 

Molly’s voice echoed slightly in the room, leaving a deadly silence as the echoes fell.

 

‘I’m sorry’, Molly said. ‘Its-I’ll just go-‘

 

‘No’, Mycroft said, getting up as if he intended to stop her. Molly stopped moving, and he sat down.

 

‘You’re wrong’, Mycroft said. ‘But you have made...some good points. I know Sherlock’s life is at stake, and I do not intend to endanger him in any way. However, you and I both know Sherlock- he will not see to reason in a conventional manner. Therefore the only route left to me is to force him to see sense.’

 

Mycroft cleared his throat.

 

‘He is without money or shelter, in the middle of a country unknown to him’, Mycroft said. ‘Potentially in danger, if he is chasing Moriatry’s network, as I am lead to believe. My brother has incomparable amount of confidence in his ability to ignore his body’s most basic needs, as you well know’.

 

Molly nodded, sniffing.

 

‘He will not realise until he is forced to,’ Mycroft said. ‘But you are correct in one fact. Of course, I do care. But I can not be seen to be doing so, lest it shall affect either of us adversely. If I may be so open, Sherlock and I hold very dangerous roles in our chosen occupations.’

 

Mycroft stopped, folding his fingers under his chin, regarding Molly.

 

‘I’m sorry’, Molly said, feeling miserable. ‘I didn’t want to- I know you must know what you’re doing. It’s just…I can’t do anything. And I hate it.’

 

Molly looked at her lap, willing herself not to cry. She would not cry, not in front of Mycroft, not again. Yet everytime she tried to prove that she wasn’t weak, that she wasn’t some deranged damsel in distress, she ended up proving the opposite. She felt pathetic.

 

Mycroft pulled out a handkerchief from nowhere, and handed it to Molly.

 

‘Thank you’, Molly said, wiping her eyes. She pressed a finger to the light blue fabric, fingering the faint grey ‘M.H’ on a corner.

 

‘You may keep it’, Mycroft said. ‘To add to your collection.’

 

To add-

 

‘I keep forgetting about your umbrella!’, Molly said, looking up to see Mycroft’s face in a slight smirk. ‘I don’t-‘

 

‘Please don’t worry yourself’, Mycroft said. ‘I have others. You may keep that one, if you like’.

 

‘I didn’t mean to-‘Molly tried, but Mycroft stopped her.

 

‘I know you will give it a good home’, Mycroft said seriously. Molly blinked, and then laughed.

 

‘T-Thank you, I guess’, Molly said. ‘Um, I just, can I ask for a favour?’

 

Mycroft looked at her questioningly.

 

‘You may’, Mycroft said, sounding confused.

 

‘I h-have’, Molly said. ‘I have to go to my sister’s home for Christmas soon, um, but…’

 

‘Yes?’, Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow again. That would be his trademark look in her mind, Molly decided.

 

‘Can I help you trick Sherlock?’, Molly said. ‘It’s only that, um, he always somehow gets the last word and it would be nice to…’

 

Mycroft smiled, more openly than Molly had ever seen him to.

 

‘This is a rather high security operation’, Mycroft said. ‘I shall definitely need the help of someone trustworthy’.

 

Not for the first time, Molly’s face went red.

 

  **TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that’s all, folks! I hope you liked it! The next chapter will be out within this coming week, so you guys don’t have to wait too long. The next chapter will definitely have more going on. Please comment and let me know what you thought!


	9. They've Got To Kill What We've Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's very easy to forget that good people exist, and that not everything needs to be controlled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also don’t own Lush, MAC or any of the songs mentioned in this chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Author's Notes: I would just like to put as a warning- this chapter has a bit of swearing in it (just a couple of times, I think), a brief mention of necrophilia, some bashing of UK politicians and PM – I would like to say, AGAIN, that I have nothing against David Cameron, Boris Johnson, or whoever, they just make convenient insulting material. I don’t mind our PM. Honestly.  
> In addition, I know nothing of Barons, Baroness’s or generally that much about royalty. Or what kind of events they attend, please don’t look too much into that.  
> The character Harry is mentioned in this- just in case some aren’t sure who that is, this is the friend of Mycroft’s that works at Buckingham Palace, whom we saw in ‘Scandal in Belgravia’.  
> Also, The song ‘Sharply Dressed Man’ is by ZZ Top, which I thought could work for Mycroft.  
> The song ‘Psycho’ by Puddle of Mudd is also used here-I don’t endorse the degrading manner in which Schizophrenia is mentioned in this song, and if that effects/offends anyone, please skip the last half of this chapter.  
> Other than that, the usual- this chapter is beta’d by Adalind, who was a saint with this monster of a chapter, and to whom I will be grateful to for eternity for putting up with me. 
> 
> Finally, this chapter title is taken from ‘We’re In This Together’ by Nine Inch Nails.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas.

 

_I am not a sentimental man._

This year was more trying than usual, Mycroft thought, and he did not know why. Of all times, this year was the easiest for him to make excuses and get away; mummy had not insisted- in Sherlock’s absence- that they celebrate as a family.  But the itch, the itch of being stuck in his own mind without an outlet, without a verbalised thought by anyone other than himself was intensified beyond Mycroft’s own recognition.

 

Christmas wasn’t just an endorsement of the boredom that the day of not working entailed. It was a day commemorating his failure to fight the human instinct that always fell on him on the day. Mycroft would not fool himself. Isolation, a metaphorical beast, was a disguise for loneliness. His failure to assuage the…emotion….every year led him to seek his annual punishment of spending Christmas secluded in self-loathing.

 

At times like this, he could understand Sherlock’s behaviour, as well as his eventual fall into seeking friendship with an ordinary, yet extraordinary, man. But love was a paralytic, Mycroft knew, and it was something he could not afford, and if there was anything that he was good at, it was not falling for the obvious. He had built his profession around his ability to avoid disadvantages to himself, and find advantages in others. _That’s the way it should stay_ , he told himself.

 

Mycroft looked at his reflection on his whisky glass.

 

 **Read:** Blank, schooled expression- the one he had entrained in himself for over a decade. Stiff upper lip, Mycroft noted, as it should be. Chin upwards and eyes straight, assuming a military-like posture. Being the government required one to be a solider first, and for that Mycroft often thought he had more in common with John Watson than the other man would admit to himself.

 

Mycroft looked over at the fireplace besides him, and tried to feel the warmth of it. He pulled out his phone from his jacket, and typed out a message to Sherlock’s last known burner phone, which his assistant had tracked.

 

_Merry Christmas, Sherlock. MH_

Whether Sherlock got it or not, Mycroft would not know- he would not receive a message back.  Just as he was about to put his phone back in his pocket, and continue his contemplations, his phone chimed loudly. Raising his eyebrows, he checked his inbox.

_Merry Christmas, Mycroft! Hope you’re having a nice day._

_Molly_ _J_

Mycroft looked back at the fire.

 

 **Note to self:** I am not a sentimental man. It is a motto worth living by.

\----------------------------------

Molly bit her lip, and sent the text to Mycroft, hoping she didn’t seem pathetic. It didn’t…she hadn’t seen him since that day with the post-card, when he had agreed to allow her assist him trick Sherlock into letting Mycroft help. But Molly knew that the man was alone, and she also knew what it was like to have no one at Christmas. She didn’t expect a text back, not really, and her texting him didn’t mean anything. It didn’t. But it felt right. Besides, she couldn’t take it back now.

 

_It is funny how times change._

 

As a child, Molly had loved Christmas- she had loved, no, adored the bright pretty fairy lights that seemed to be strung in every tree, the tinsel, the flaming Christmas puddings. She had always hated mince pies, didn’t understand why they were called that when there was nothing ‘minced’ about them, but she loved how they looked; delicate, dusted with icing snow, festive on their special plates. Most of all, she had loved how everyone, everybody had a smile on their face, even when they were sad- it was the only way to make Christmas seem legitimate, she knew, remembering her dad’s fake smiles and laughs the Christmas after her mother’s death, the way he had tried to make that Christmas as happy and fun as their previous ones, so she and Lydia would remember it well.

 

But these days, Christmas was only a whisper of how they had used to be- with her mother and father dead, the relatives had dispersed and the celebrations had been forgotten. To Molly, now, Christmas was when she spent quality times with her cat, curled up in her cushiony sofa, with the Doctor Who special on the TV.

 

Lydia came into the living room, holding a steaming mug and a crying baby. Molly smiled at her, and held out her arms for the baby, Jake, his face bright red and wet with tears.

 

‘Sorry’, Lydia said, setting the mug of tea down, settling next to Molly on the floral sofa. ‘His teeth are coming out, so he’s being a bit grizzly right now, and nothing calms him down.’

 

Molly smiled. This year, this Christmas, was different. For years, Lydia and Molly had not talked, for reasons Molly wasn’t even sure about. It started after her father’s death; Lydia seemed to become weary of Molly somehow, refusing to talk to her, getting angry with her for little things, stupid things, and Molly- stressed and upset- had retaliated, pouring out all the things she had never said before - how Lydia was always the one everyone noticed, the one people loved, the one that always, _always_ got everything.  Several screaming matches later, Lydia no longer acknowledged Molly, those rare times they were forced to be in the same room, no longer even looked at her. But then, a year ago, came the first of the late night phone calls, the tentative text messages started and then a birthday card.  They cried over the phone to each other, talking about their lives in ways you can only talk to with people that really know you, people who grew up with you.

None of what had gone before was important now, Molly knew, and she didn’t care about the bad times, not when things were better between them now.

 

Molly kissed Jake’s forehead as the baby whimpered and squirmed in her lap. She would get to, maybe, see Jake grow up now, with a happy knot in her stomach. She had always loved babies. She still cried when she had to do an autopsy on a dead child. And she had been ecstatic when she found out she would be an aunt.

 

‘It’s okay’, Molly said, taking a sip of her tea. ‘I can’t believe how much he’s grown up’.

 

‘I know- I feel like it was only yesterday he was born’, Lydia said. ‘I wish dad could’ve seen him’.

 

The happy knot in Molly’s stomach unravelled.

 

‘I know. He was always at me to find someone, and settle down’, Molly said. ‘I just…I think he said it because he hoped for grandchildren.’

 

Another thing Lydia had beat her at, Molly realised, and tried to push the thought away. Looking at Jake, who had quietened and was nibbling gummily at the sleeve of her jumper, she wondered if she would ever have one. She wasn’t totally sure she wanted a child, but sometimes, alone in her empty flat, she told herself that she did, she really did. She knew it could be the loneliness speaking, and the want to be loved unconditionally and thoroughly needed the way only children could do.

 

‘Do you remember the first Christmas I brought David home?’, Lydia said, speaking of her husband. ‘And you said that you were going to bring that guy that you met at work- what was his name again? Tim, or something? When you didn’t bring him, dad was so upset that he didn’t even notice David.’

 

Molly froze, knowing Lydia was talking Jim, of Moriarty. Lydia had tensed as well, but more due to the memory, the resent that still hung between them.

 

‘Something like that’, Molly said, hesitantly. ‘Dad loved David though, you know that.’

 

‘Maybe’, Lydia said, still tense. ‘But you were his favourite, we both know that. The one that went to uni, became a doctor.’

 

Molly felt rigid. ‘Lydia’.

 

‘I know, I know’, Lydia said, shaking her head. ‘I’ll stop.’

 

‘Dad loved us equally’, Molly said, carefully, not mentioning that she had always thought Lydia was their father’s favourite. ‘And now you have a l-lovely family, and they love you’.

 

A painful twinge started in Molly’s chest, and she held Jake a little tighter to her stomach.  Lydia looked at her.

 

‘I don’t know why you don’t meet someone’, Lydia said. ‘I thought….when we weren’t speaking…..that you might have met someone in that time. Gotten married. That maybe I was an aunt and I didn’t know.’

 

Molly laughed out loud, and it sounded like a sob to her ears.

 

‘You’re pretty, you’re successful’, Lydia continued. ‘There’s no reason why you can’t find someone. Who wouldn’t want you?’

 

‘Lydia’, Molly said, trying to stop her sister. She didn’t know if Lydia meant any of the things she said, or whether it was the guilt speaking, but Molly found it didn’t really matter.

 

‘I’m fine by myself, really’, Molly said. ‘My job….it-it keeps me busy. I’m okay, I am.’

 

‘What about that guy?’, Lydia said, suddenly, perking up. ‘You rambled for ages about some guy on the phone, ages ago- some kind of detective. I don’t think you ever told me his name. What happened to him?’

 

Molly tensed again, remembering Lydia’s ability to bring up topics that Molly really didn’t want to talk about.

 

‘He’s…around. It wasn’t like that’, Molly said, and Lydia scoffed. ‘It wasn’t! I d-did, sort of, I had a bit of a crush on him.’

 

Lydia grinned. Molly knew that her sister had always loved to see her flustered.

 

‘It’s not like that now. It’s not’, Molly insisted. ‘I don’t think he’s….the sort of guy I want. I think. And he never liked me anyway.’

 

‘But, Molly’, Lydia said. ‘You talked about him for _4 hours_ on the phone one night. For you, that isn’t normal. He must’ve been some guy.’

 

‘He was. I mean, he is’, Molly said. ‘But I just….He didn’t appreciate me. That didn’t matter, but I don’t want to be with someone who treats me like he did. He was always, always so….mean. I don’t want to be with someone who makes me feel useless, I don’t.’

 

It came all out in a rush, tumbling out of her mouth, but the minute Molly had said it, she knew it was the truth. Sherlock had always treated her like…like a non-entity, someone Sherlock only really _saw_ when he thought he was dying. Even if Sherlock had been interested, which he never had and ,Molly  accepted, he never would be, Molly knew she wouldn’t be able to do it.

 

She was so sick, and so _tired_ of being nobody. Always being second-best- no, _fourth-best_ , only being seen when she was needed. She was alone, so alone, but an eerie flat and a cold bed was better than being used, and tossed out like rubbish. It had taken her a while, years actually, but she finally knew she was worth _more_ than that.

 

Lydia saw Molly’s expression, put her hand on Molly’s free hand.

 

‘Well, then he wasn’t worthy of you’, Lydia said, with forced brightness. ‘Tell me about now. Have you met anyone new? I’m not going to ask you about work, because I really don’t need to hear another story about dead people and bloody guts.’

 

‘That was only one time’, Molly said, smiling at Lydia’s change in tone. ‘And no, I haven’t really.’

 

Weirdly enough, Molly’s thoughts immediately turned to Mycroft again, and her smile became more…wistful. She wasn’t sure what was going on in her head, but she knew she was heading for disaster, if her thoughts continued the way they did. But she wouldn’t acknowledge it, she wouldn’t, because that would be admitting that she had done something truly stupid.

 

‘You _so_ have’, Lydia said, putting on a fake American accent, back from her one successful theatre production. ‘You have that look on your face.’

 

‘No I don’t!’, Molly said, her face red. ‘W-what face?’

 

Before she could help it, she thought about her last talk with Mycroft, how he had sat her down, and he had actually listened to her thoughts about what would annoy Sherlock most. She remembered how childish it felt, and how bizarre- the pathologist and the James bond-like spy, planning revenge on Sherlock, like two naughty children. It hadn’t felt…real, so unlike Mycroft, so unlike herself, and in the end, Molly had to admit that there wasn’t much she could actually do to contribute, other than add some touches to Mycroft’s already brilliant plans. But Mycroft had listened, and commented honestly on her ideas, incorporating them, and listened to something she had been worrying about for a while.

 

_‘I wish I could tell John that Sherlock is alive’, Molly had said, looking out of Mycroft’s office window. ‘This-This Christmas is going to be horrible for him. John, I mean. But for Sherlock, too.’_

_‘I agree,’ Mycroft said. ‘However, you know it is imperative John is not aware that Sherlock is alive.’_

_‘I know’, Molly said. ‘B-But-‘_

_‘He can’t know’, Mycroft said, gently. Molly sighed._

_‘I know’, She repeated. ‘I j-just…I don’t want John to h-hate me when Sherlock comes back.’_

Molly looked down at Jake, as she took a gulp of her tea.

 

‘You do that weird smile, like you have a caterpillar on your face’, Lydia said, and Molly spluttered, causing Jake to squeak on her lap. ‘Come on, who is it? Tell me! I told you about David, when I first met him, you owe me.’

 

‘Really’, Molly said. ‘There’s no one, really-‘

 

Molly’s phone buzzed loudly on the coffee table, and the tune of ‘Sharply Dressed Man’ filled the room. Lydia stared at her incredulously.

 

‘No way, you did not-‘, Lydia said, making to grab the phone on table at the same time as Molly.

 

‘No! Don’t!’, Molly said, trying not to squash Jake, who was now screaming confusedly at his mother’s and aunt’s behaviour. Molly had no idea where the message tone had come from, but she knew her sister could not see her phone. Lydia caught the phone triumphantly, and held it above Molly’s head as they stood up.

 

‘Ooh, let’s see!’, Lydia said, her eyes excited. ‘Who’s the sharply dressed man you go crazy- oh my.’

 

Molly grabbed her phone, glaring at Lydia, before looking at it.

 

_Merry Christmas, Molly. Our plan is working perfectly. I shall see you soon. MH_

‘Who’s MH?’, Lydia said, looking over Molly’s shoulder. ‘Who signs with their initials these days when there’s caller ID?’

 

Molly said nothing, her face now flaming, as she tried not to drop Jake.

 

‘I shall see you soon’, Lydia said, mimicking a deep male voice. ‘What plan is he talking about?’

 

Lydia sat down next to her, with a loud thump.

 

‘Your face looks like a tomato’, Lydia commented. ‘How long have you been sleeping with this guy? Your face only does that when-‘

 

‘Lydia!’, Molly said, her eyes wide in horror.

 

\---------------------------

 

‘You look as pale as a sheet’, Anthea commented, blankly. ‘Should I delay the next meeting?’

 

Mycroft touched his temples with the tips of his fingers, massaging the pressure points.

 

‘No’, Mycroft said, shortly. ‘If you wouldn’t mind getting me some water?’

 

Mycroft could feel a migraine coming on, and willed himself to keep a straight face, to keep going. The morning breakfast with the Prime Minister had gone badly, with the man refusing to listen to Mycroft’s suggestions. The sheer stupidity of some politicians, Mycroft thought, did not have any limits. This had been followed by a meeting with a foreign ambassador, who seemed to believe that England was threatening them with nuclear attack- Mycroft had tried to understand why he would believe this was the case, and attempted to calm the man. Mycroft was certain the ambassador had gone back home, and confirmed the imaginary attack. Once again, Mycroft felt as though half of his job involved stopping dense individuals from carrying out witless, but damaging, actions.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes for a few seconds, willing himself to stay calm. Anthea knocked once on the door, before walking straight in, glued, as always, to her Blackberry. She had a small smirk on her face.

 

 **Read:** Knocking once means she has urgent news, but not so urgent that it needs to be dealt with immediately. An annoyance, more likely, to himself. Her un-rigid stance suggests her most recent text message is not work-related, something Mycroft should address, but won’t. Irritating his assistant more often than not results in his irritation. Her mouth is turned upwards and the kink in her hair has not yet been noticed by herself, indicating the message is from a friend, a distraction. His assistant does not have friends. Therefore, either Mycroft’s deductions are incorrect (string negative) or Anthea has, indeed, made a…friend.

 

‘The Baroness is unavailable for next week’s event’, Anthea said, carefully. Mycroft bit back the need to scream out loud.

 

Just adding one more annoyance to the day. The time with the Baroness had been something Mycroft had been working on for months, the woman being difficult to please, and even more difficult to persuade. However, recently, the woman appeared to respond to Mycroft’s efforts, and had consented to attend an exclusive soiree with him- a good opportunity to persuade her on certain matters of great importance.

 

‘Did she say why?’, Mycroft said, biting back his words. Anthea clicked her phone some more, before answering.

 

‘Not really’, Anthea said. ‘But her tone suggested her husband wasn’t too happy about it. You should really stop entertaining married women.’

 

Mycroft sighed, raising his eyebrow at his assistant, who was smirking again.

 

‘You know I have no interest in the Baroness’, Mycroft said. ‘Merely her political leanings. However, it seems all my effort has been in vain’.

 

‘I don’t think so’, said Anthea. ‘She still seems fairly besotted with you. She was very apologetic.’

 

Mycroft sighed. The rare times these days that he needed to charm royals and dignitaries, he found it more of an irritation than flattery.

 

‘Very well’, He said, his voice rough with tiredness. ‘Please let the Mayor know I will not be attending the party.’

 

‘Sir,’ Anthea said, looking up from her phone. ‘The Mayor has been insisting for weeks that you should attend the party. It’s fairly important that you don’t decline.’

 

Mycroft looked at the ceiling of his office, wondering whether he would mind if it crashed down on him.

 

‘Yes’, he said absently. ‘If I must.’

 

Anthea nodded, and started to walk out of the door.

 

‘Give Molly my regards’, Mycroft said, still looking at the ceiling and leaning in his chair. ‘I assume the image of the kitten she has sent you is amusing.’

 

Anthea looked back at him, and opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. She walked out without a word.

 

Mycroft smiled for a second, and then straightened in his chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin.

 

There was work to be done.

 

\----------------------

_Mycroft said hello, by the way. He’s in a bit of a mood today. A._

Molly smiled at the text, and then put her phone back in her lab coat pocket. Anthea had begun to text her, out of the blue, often with random pieces of information. But the mere mention of Mycroft’s name made Molly blush these days, something that got on her nerves. She quickly snuck a look at her lab assistant, and was relieved that he hadn’t noticed her change in demeanour. Then again, Molly thought, even if he did, he would never show it.

 

Ever since Anthea had left her position as Molly’s fake lab assistant, and since the Baskov attack, Mycroft had assigned her a new lab assistant, who apparently was another one of his people, who could protect her in case of another attack. The Baskov incident felt like it had been such a long time ago, in Molly’s head, although she knew it can’t have been, and that the answer to that had still not been found. She knew she should be more worried, but when nothing had happened in such a long time, it was hard to be.

 

But, Molly thought bitterly, what was more worrying, and annoying, was exactly how little her new assistant talked. Lars was a man of medium height, according to Molly, and what he lacked in height was made up for in broad shoulders and bulk. He was obviously of German descent, as she guessed by his accent one of the very, very rare times he had actually talked. His blue eyes and angel-blond hair made it very hard for Molly to see him as anything other than an innocent lab assistant. But sometimes Molly caught him tense, his eyes sharp and alert, his mouth in a straight, thin line, and Molly knew, she knew, that this was not a man that she wanted to mess with. She knew that he probably wasn’t a mean person, and he was never unkind in her presence, but sometimes the lab just became too quiet and no matter how hard Molly tried, Lars would not answer her questions in anything other than monosyllabic sentences.

 

Molly sighed to herself, as she typed up some of the notes she had made on Mr Gerald, the corpse currently on her autopsy table, looking at Lars as he worked carefully on cleaning the body. She knew she shouldn’t complain- she had no reason to complain; Lars did his work efficiently and carefully, without ever whining about some of the more ‘gross’ parts of her work, unlike Anthea had done (the woman had shot her evil ‘I will kill you’ stares anytime Molly had suggested she clean a corpse).

 

Anthea hadn’t been loud, not at all, really, she had barely talked. But it didn’t feel….like this, - it hadn’t felt all frozen and pin drop silent as it did now. What Molly knew was that Anthea had a strong, vibrant personality, something Lars seemed to be lacking. Molly felt horrible for thinking it, but the man seemed like a robot. She wondered if the government trained all their people to seem as blank as Lars, the way even seemed Mycroft most of the time.

 

Suddenly, there was a knock on the lab door, and Laura the receptionist popped her head through. Lars quickly put a cloth on the body as the woman walked in, before Molly could tell him to.

 

‘Hi!’, Molly said, confused. Laura didn’t often come to see her unless there was a letter or a package for her at the front; Molly wasn’t the most social of people, and Laura loved to gossip. ‘D-did you need anything?’

 

‘Nah, just thought I’d say hello’, Laura, said cheerfully. ‘Truth be told, I wanted to ask you something- are you free?’

 

Molly wanted to say that she was busy- it was quite obvious with the body behind her on the autopsy table, but Laura seemed to very excited, and Molly didn’t want to say no.

 

‘It’s fine, if you just-‘, Molly said, awkwardly, gesturing Laura to walk with her to Molly’s office. Once they reached it, Molly took off her lab coat and washed her hands.

 

‘I was just wondering’, Laura began. ‘Are you single, Molly?’

 

‘What?’, Molly said, confused. ‘Erm, Y-yes. Why?’

 

‘Good!’, Laura said, bouncing on her feet, her hair flying. ‘I have this friend, Tom, that me and my husband have been trying to set up for a while, and the other day I was saying to Larry, my husband, that Tom would be perfect for you. What do you say?’

 

‘Erm’, Molly said.

 

‘He’s very cute’, Laura interrupted. ‘Tall, dark, quite handsome. I think he could be your type. Come on, at least meet him?’

 

‘I-I don’t know’, Molly said. It was true, she was single. Molly couldn’t remember the last time she gone out with a man, let alone had a boyfriend.

 

‘You know, I was worried’, Laura said. ‘Because I wasn’t sure if you were single or not, and hadn’t just not told the girls, what with those flowers your mystery man sent you. Did you guys break up?’

 

‘What, no!’, Molly said, remembering Mycroft’s beautiful yellow roses. ‘We weren’t- I just-‘

 

‘Well, you should meet Tom, he’ll make you forget all about mystery guy, I’m sure’, Laura said, cheerily. ‘Come on, say you’ll meet him. We could double date! You, Tom, me and Larry. I never see you outside of work!’

 

Molly smiled, and put her hand in her lab coat pocket, where she had put one of the yellow flowers, ages ago. It had wilted since then, but the yellow of the flower always made Molly’s heart leap.

 

‘Erm, no’, Molly said, surprising herself. ‘I think….I think I need a little time.’

 

Laura sighed. ‘Fine. It’s a shame, really. Do you want some tea? I’m just getting some’.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Mycroft blew, carefully, at his tea before taking a sip.  Harry, the royal equerry, otherwise known as the personal attendant of the royal household, sat across him in a similar rigid stance.

 

Mycroft put down his tea cup, crossing his legs. Try as he might, he could no longer enter Buckingham Palace without remembering the time Sherlock had been in this very room, refusing to get dressed. At the time, Sherlock had been the height of embarrassment, in front of a man Mycroft had known for a long time and had respected.  Harry, like all men of good upbringing, never brought up the incident.

 

It was funny how times change. What he would not do to see his brother now, Mycroft thought.

 

‘I trust that there will be no more problems with my employer?’, Harry said, taking a sip from his own tea cup, his voice echoing in the large, richly decorated room.

 

‘I believe she shall do well should the incident not occur again’, Mycroft said. ‘However, there is only so much I can prevent from reaching the media.’

 

‘Like wolves on a single piece of meat’, Harry said, nodding. ‘I do appreciate your help, nevertheless.’

 

‘We are old friends’, Mycroft said. ‘Please desist with the gratitude. I have needed your aid many times more than I can recall.’

 

‘Our job is hard as it is, without the scandals that seem to fester every once in a while’, Harry said, his voice even. ‘Which eventually explode beyond recognition. We must stick together in such times. Such a time seems to have fallen upon you now; I must say, you look troubled.’

 

Harry had known Mycroft for decades, and had been well versed in Mycroft’s facial expressions.

 

 **Read:** Old friend, but not without reserve. Harry’s folded arms suggested a defensive attitude, wanting to repay Mycroft’s help despite none being expected. Harry had always had the hardest time being in someone’s debt, and it had happen to be often in Mycroft’s. His eyes are expressionless, but drooped in the corners- undefensive suggested conflicted thoughts, no gain from his question, from this conversation. Harry genuinely thought Mycroft was troubled. The neat pleats of his suit jacket indicated he was on top of his duties and had time to talk, while the scratch on the toe of the shoe indicates his employer is not currently in residence. Boredom. Very, well.

 

‘I am not troubled, as such,’ Mycroft said, eventually. Harry smiled wirily (read: the man now knew when he is being deduced. Interesting. Revisit at a later date).

 

‘It is a minor matter’, Mycroft said. ‘The Baroness has declined my accompaniment to the Mayor’s soiree.’

 

‘I’m sorry to hear that’, Harry said. ‘I understand you have been working on her for a while.’

 

Mycroft nodded his assent.

 

‘I don’t believe the matter is of any worry’, Harry said. ‘The Baroness is temperamental at the least, but controlled by her husband- or rather, his money and influence. I daren’t say she is not still in awe of you.’

 

‘That is not the problem, thankfully’, Mycroft said. ‘However, the Baroness is a very headstrong woman, and very prone to indecision, hysteria and acts of temper. I worry she may change her mind of my person very quickly.’

 

‘Her political favouritisms aside’, Harry said. ‘The Baroness seems very amenable to your opinions in general, so I don’t think the delay will much effect how she thinks of you. Why, to have your charm, Mycroft, I honestly wish I knew how you do it.’

 

Mycroft felt bored of this conversation.

 

‘It is not difficult’, Mycroft said. ‘A few well placed smiles, small talk, and a little playing to the subject’s vanity can work wonders.’

 

‘Nonsense’, Harry said. ‘It’s your natural charisma. You have always, above all else, been incredibly good at interesting the right people. I find it very hard to understand how you are yet unmarried’.

 

‘I have no interests in marrying or dating, Harry, as you well know’, Mycroft said, raising his eyebrow. ‘Our line of work does not allow for…romance’.

 

‘If you say so’, Harry said. ‘Just understand that romance is not beneath you.’

 

Mycroft sighed.

 

‘Cheer up’, Harry said, his stare trained on Mycroft. ‘Think of the Baroness’s absence as an opportunity. You love those.’

 

‘I have no idea what you could mean’, Mycroft said, grimily.  Harry chuckled.

 

‘Mycroft, simply do what you do best’, Harry said. ‘Be efficient. So the Baroness is not available- find somebody else.’

 

Mycroft looked at Harry, staring at him.

 

‘I’m sure you have no shortage of admirers’, Harry said. ‘But surely you have someone else you need to keep sweet?’

 

Mycroft stared at Harry for a little longer, before looking away. His glaze met his umbrella, leaning against his chair, his second favourite one.

 

_‘He can’t know’, Mycroft said, gently. Molly sighed._

_‘I know’, She repeated. ‘I j-just…I don’t want John to h-hate me when Sherlock comes back.’_

_Mycroft had stayed silent, as Molly got up to leave._

_‘I hope the plan goes well’, Molly said. ‘And thank you for the umbrella. I’ll, erm, I’ll look after it.’_

_Mycroft watched her leave. That had been his favourite umbrella, but she didn’t need to know that._

‘Well?’, Harry said, cutting into Mycroft’s thoughts. Mycroft looked at him.

 

‘Perhaps’, Mycroft said, slowly. ‘There is someone I need to keep quiet about some sensitive data’.

 

\---------------------------

 

Molly tried not to let her hair get wet, as she ran across the street, umbrella covering her head. The thick mahogany of the handle had been hard for her to hold up, obviously not being for her size, but she loved the umbrella all the same.

 

Wiping her jeans, Molly entered the small bistro, the one that Mycroft had taken her two months ago. She saw her table, and rushed towards it, plopping her wet bag next to her chair, umbrella closed.

 

‘You took your time, sit down, I need to vent’, Anthea said, grumpily. ‘Some state secrets are annoying me’.

 

Molly giggled. ‘I don’t think you’re allowed to talk about that with me’.

 

Anthea sighed.

 

‘Whatever, sometimes I hate my job’, Anthea said.

 

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but Anthea spoke first.

 

‘I hate your job too’, Anthea said. ‘See another dead person lately?’

 

‘Shut up!’, Molly said, laughing inside. Anthea, for everything Molly had thought her to be, was turning out to be Molly’s best friend. ‘I love my job’.

 

‘I’d say you’re into necrophilia, but you wear too much pink’, Anthea said, causing Molly to choke on her water, the people on the table next to them to stare.

 

‘Anthea!’, Molly said. ‘F-fine, you can’t talk about your job. So, erm, how’s Mycroft?’

 

Anthea looked at her with a confused look on her face, and then her eyes flickered to the umbrella.

 

‘His highness is being a weenie’, Anthea said. ‘And moaning about some old fart that won’t go out with him. He’s more like his brother than you think.’

 

‘What?’, Molly said, her happy mood disappearing fast. ‘Mycroft h-has a girlfriend?’

 

Anthea blinked at her, and then smiled brightly.

 

‘No, he’s just pretending’, Anthea said. ‘Why do you care if he has a girlfriend? Wow, that sentence sounds funny out loud?’

 

‘W-wait, what?’, Molly said, confused. ‘I was….just asking. W-why is him having a girlfriend funny?’

 

Anthea seemed to be considering Molly.

 

‘Mycroft doesn’t date. Ever’, Anthea said. ‘I don’t think the Holmes are wired like that.’

 

Anthea looked at the umbrella again.

 

‘But why do you have his favourite umbrella?’, Anthea said, her voice odd.

 

Molly blinked.

 

‘His favourite?’

 

\---------------------------

 

‘Why does Molly have your favourite umbrella?’ Anthea said, her voice demanding.

 

 **Read** : The assistant’s hair was slightly wet, curling at the ends. She had been outside sometime in the last hour, the lack of a shoulder bag indicating not on official errands. Lack of a watch suggests a social event, potentially meeting someone. Was Anthea dating? Shade of lipstick is a pale pink, probably MAC, indicates a non-romantic meeting, possibly a friend. _Anthea doesn’t have friends._ Molly, of course, as suggested by her outburst.

 

‘I beg your pardon?’, Mycroft said, evenly.

 

Anthea looked at him suspiciously.

 

‘Sir,’ Anthea said. ‘I believe Molly has your umbrella, the one you most prefer. I can extract it if you would like?’

 

‘That is fine, Anthea, do not worry yourself’, Mycroft said. ‘I gifted that umbrella to Dr Hooper.’

 

The incredulous look on Anthea’s face was quickly muted.

 

‘Gifted, sir’, Anthea said, shortly, her voice one-toned.

 

Mycroft looked at Anthea. He knew she and Molly had formed some kind of bond, a kind of friendship, over his observation of Molly Hooper, something he had not expected. Both women were polar opposites, although under Anthea’s influence, Molly had become more confident, openly speaking her mind.

 

But the more Mycroft thought about it, he realised exactly how precocious the notion of Molly Hooper actually was. Mycroft’s job in the government was one of defence, or control, yet he had failed to notice a significant break in the barrier, so to speak.

_I wish I could tell John Sherlock is alive._

Like an unexploded bomb, Mycroft knew things could end badly, for Sherlock, and for himself. Closing his eyes for a second, he tried not to think of why he had not considered addressing Molly’s silence sooner.

 

‘Never mind that’, Mycroft said, his tone harsher, making Anthea stare. He cleared his throat, schooling his expression to remain blank.

 

‘That is not of important’, Mycroft said. ‘I believe I have found a replacement for the Baroness at the Mayor’s event.’

 

Anthea took out her phone, clicked a few buttons.

 

‘Of course, sir’, Anthea said. ‘I shall confirm your attendance. May I know who is accompanying you?’

 

A split second, and Mycroft hesitated. Anthea looked at him in confusion.

 

A few seconds later, her confusion was cleared by realisation, and then followed by anger.

 

‘No’, Anthea said, louder than she needed to.

 

\-------------------------------

 

Molly felt tired. She could feel it in her bones, the way it made her feel older than she was. She couldn’t wait to go home; to a hot bath with one of the Lush bath bombs her sister had given her for Christmas, and then a cuddle with Toby the cat.

 

As she packed up to leave, there was a knock on her door. Molly sighed, knowing it would be Lars to say he was leaving for the day.

 

‘Come in!’, She called, with her back to the door, as she dug for her oyster card in her bag. ‘Hang on, I’ll sign you out in a minute-‘

 

‘Forgive the lateness of my visit’, Mycroft’s voice said, from behind her. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

 

Molly swung around, nearly tripping on her own feet.

 

‘What, no! It’s-It’s f-fine’, Molly stuttered, before giggling nervously. ‘I didn’t know you were-‘

 

Molly’s phone interrupted her, her ring tone loud and clear as it sung the lyrics of ‘Psycho’.

 

_Maybe I’m the one, I’m the one, that’s a schizophrenic psycho-_

Molly was going to kill Anthea.

 

‘I’m so sorry!’, Molly babbled, picking up her phone. Mycroft looked at her as though Molly was deranged- at this point, she didn’t know if she wasn’t. She clicked the ‘accept’ button on her phone.

 

‘I’m so sorry’, Molly said to Mycroft, before putting her ear to the phone. ‘Hello?’

 

‘Hello, Molly’, said Sherlock, his voice deep and rough. Molly gasped and Mycroft looked alarmed.

 

‘Sherlock?’, Molly said, hearing his voice for the first time in months. ‘I don’t-‘

 

Mycroft stood closer to Molly, dropping his umbrella, listening in.

 

‘Yes, hello, I’m alive, et cetera, et cetera’, Sherlock said, briskly. ‘I happen to know you are spending an unhealthy amount of time with my fat, moronic brother, so put the phone on speaker.’

 

_How-_

‘Erm’, Molly said, looking at Mycroft.

 

Mycroft carefully prised Molly’s hand free of the phone, his fingers warm around hers. Molly nodded at him, and Mycroft put the phone on speaker, holding it to their faces. Molly blushed as she finally realised exactly how close they were standing, but Mycroft didn’t seem to notice.

 

‘Greetings brother mine’, Mycroft said, his behaviour changing. Molly noticed how Mycroft became almost defensive, as he talked to Sherlock. ‘How is death treating you?’

 

‘All the better for not seeing you’, Sherlock retorted. ‘It’s been extremely refreshing. As I have better things to do, I’ll keep this message short.’

 

‘And what would the message be?’, Mycroft said

‘Fuck off’, Sherlock swore, loudly. ‘Don’t think I don’t know this is all your doing- being held back at airlines, borders, I’ve been detained twice for owning a brothel, I don’t even-‘

 

‘Sex always did alarm you, brother’, Mycroft said, a predatory smile on his face. ‘You can’t blame me for that’.

 

‘Shut up’, Sherlock said, disdain dripping through the phone. ‘I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to trap me. While else am I suddenly on a black list for every pseudonym of mine that you know? You forget, _brother_ , your manipulations don’t work on me.’

 

‘Charming’, Mycroft said. ‘Here was I, thinking we could have a civilised conversation about your…departure.’

 

‘I’d rather extract my toenails with an unsanitary needle. Just leave me alone!’

 

Mycroft sighed, and Molly looked at him carefully. His face seemed worn, broken, but somehow patched back together.

 

‘Oh Sherlock’, Mycroft said, quietly. ‘You know I’ll do nothing of the sort’.

 

‘You always did need to stick your abnormally large nose into things. I don’t need your help.’

 

‘Sherlock’, Mycroft said. ‘But I think you do. And you know it.’

 

Sherlock scoffed loudly on the other side of the call. ‘What on earth makes you think I’ll need your help?’

 

‘Balance of probability, brother mine’, Mycroft said, his voice rough. ‘Balance of probability’.

 

Sherlock stayed silent.

 

‘I can provide you with money’, Mycroft said, quickly. Molly saw a flash of softness, of panic, in his expression. ‘I can find you shelter, contacts that can help you. I won’t come and find you if you don’t wish me to.’

 

 

Sherlock groaned loudly on the phone.

 

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock said, seeming less angry. ‘Why are you with Molly?’

 

Mycroft scrunched his forehead. ‘You knew I was with Dr Hooper’.

 

‘Balance of probability’, Sherlock said, mimicking Mycroft’s voice. ‘Keep away from her.’

 

Sherlock’s voice was suddenly quiet, deadly; Molly felt a cold chill run down her spine. Something Molly couldn’t recognise flashed over Mycroft’s eyes.

 

‘Let me help you’, Mycroft said. ‘I do worry about you so.’

 

‘I know what you’re doing. Keep. Away. From. Her’

 

Molly was confused, and Mycroft smiled at her kindly.

 

‘You have always been so paranoid, Sherlock’, Mycroft said, calmly. ‘You’re not in a position to make negotiations.’

 

‘I’ll accept your help’, Sherlock said oddly, as though he was talking through gritted teeth. ‘If you leave Molly Hooper alone’.

 

Mycroft was quiet for a second. Molly felt as though she had had her breath knocked out of her.

 

‘If those are your stipulations, then I accept’, Mycroft said, evenly.

 

‘Fine’, Sherlock said roughly. ‘Tell your annoying assistant to look under the little grey chest in the desk in 221B. I’ll contact you after that.’

 

Sherlock hung up, a crashing noise filling the room as he cut off. Molly breathed out, and looked away from Mycroft.

 

‘W-Well done’, Molly said, croakily.

 

Mycroft leaned against Molly’s desk, his hands moulded around the edge as he looked at her. Molly’s face heated as she physically felt the smallness of her office.

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft agreed.

 

Molly nodded numbly, moving around Mycroft to grab her bag and coat.

 

‘I have to go’, Molly said. Mycroft stared at her, his eyes piercing blue.

 

‘I hope you don’t mind’, Mycroft said. ‘But I hoped you could help me with a delicate matter’.

 

Molly looked at Mycroft, confused.

 

‘W-What can I help you with?’, Molly said, and Mycroft smiled at her.

 

‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a bind’, Mycroft said, carefully. ‘I wondered if you would accept an invitation of mine.’

 

Molly’s eyes widened.

 

She didn’t know why, but at that moment, she didn’t feel unlike a marionette.

 

**TBC**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! Please review, it really does help the creative process and cause faster updates, honestly.


	10. Today I'm Afraid of Yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also don’t own Elie Saab etc.  
> Author's Notes: I have such poor impulse control. I just told some readers that this chapter will be posted on Monday, and then promptly posted it now. Oh well!  
> As a note, a conversation between my beta and myself made me see a potential confusion- as this story is an AU of TRF, Mycroft here did feed Moriarty information about Sherlock, but not because Sherlock asked him to or because it was a part of Mycroft’s plan- he did it for his own purposes, as much as he regrets it in this series.
> 
> Also, here are the links for what Molly wears here in the party:  
> Molly's dress: http://www.weddinginspirasi.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/2011-couture-elie-saab-dresses.jpg  
> Molly's necklace: http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=60950904
> 
> The Elie Saab dressed Molly wears here is actually a lot more sparkly than I wanted, so just imagine it a little less…showy.
> 
> As always, this chapter was beta’d by the lovely Adalind, and I am very grateful for her help and support. This chapter is named after the song ‘Epic Last Song’ by ‘Did I Offend You, Yeah?’
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

When Mycroft was sixteen, he lost his virginity to the girl that lived over the hill, during a summer holiday back home from Harrow. Natasha was easily a pretty girl, one that society deemed a classic beauty; with big dark eyes, blonde curls, and a pleasing curved figure. It had been no hardship to follow her lead and finally carry out the act that other boys his age told him would make him a man. The act itself was not difficult and was satisfactory, by any teenage boy’s standards- but Mycroft knew, as soon as it was over, that Natasha would never be the type that would draw him in, her insipid sweetness rotting his tongue.

 

As soon as Mycroft came back home, Sherlock took one look at him and loudly accounted everything he could read about the encounter. The look of horror on his mother’s face and the sheer embarrassment was enough to teach Mycroft to be more discrete. It proved to be a useful lesson in the future.

That night, mummy had come to Mycroft’s bedroom, awkward and hesitant, and told him about women, emotions and marriage. Mycroft nodded along to her words, knowing that he would heed none of them. Natasha had only proved what Mycroft had already figured out about the concept of love and romance- that it was a man-made ideology used to control the masses, the weak majority of humankind that he did not belong to.

 

By the time Mycroft was twenty years old, he was already bored of sex, having slept with several men and women, and found he was uninterested with the rigmarole that was needed every time he cared to obtain it. He found the interest that he gathered from fellow students to be unimportant, only keeping close the ones that would become more useful in the future- gaining contacts, charming those he knew he would need favours from in the future.

 

When Mycroft was twenty-two, he realised that people naturally seemed to come to him, offered themselves for tasks he found arduous, and could be easily manipulated to obtain what he wanted from them. He could turn this into an act, he knew, and he found that it deeply complimented that talent of deduction that he had always had. He knew he was not the most handsome of men, classically or not, and so drew attention to his height and sense of power using carefully tailored Saville Row suits. The implementation of this simple measure resulted in his ushering into the inner bowels of the government.

By the age of twenty-four, Mycroft Holmes knew that he could safely say he was very successful for his age. While his mother and father simpered and boosted to society of their child’s genius, Mycroft smiled tight-lipped, knowing his genius had played only a minor role in his accomplishments. While his intelligence had definitely helped him secure his promotions and he was increasingly dedicated to his work, what had really cemented his irreplaceable role in the government was his ability to make people listen to him, do what he wanted them to do, and admire him while they did it.

Sherlock had looked up to him then, still young and impressionable, still at a time when Mycroft was bearable to him.

 

‘You’ve changed’, Sherlock had said, one day. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘You’ll understand one day’, Mycroft had said. ‘And if all is well, you’ll realise why it’s necessary’.

‘I don’t think I will’, Sherlock declared, blinking at Mycroft as if he was seeing him for the first time. ‘I do not wish to be a predator.’

 

A predator, Mycroft had thought. How _apt._

 

At thirty years of age, when he was so powerful and feared that he seldom needed  more than his name to influence people, Mycroft started to wear his family’s ancestral wedding band. He had, as he had so meticulously planned, become a proverbial bridge in the very heart of the government- one which could not be burned down without disastrous results to the arsonist themselves. He no longer needed to pretend to be available to foolish human behaviours and bodily functions.

 

However, Mycroft hadn’t realised how lonely it could be at the top, the king of a kingdom that did not know it.

 

//

 

Molly sat in 221A, surrounded by the flapping woman, and John, who looked more tired than anything else.

She had promised to come and see the elderly woman for quite a long time, and had only actually went to see her now- with everything that was going on, or going to happen. Maybe because she needed something solid to hold on to, something that she knew she could rely on to the same.

 

‘ _I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a bind’, Mycroft said, carefully. ‘I wondered if you would accept an_ _invitation of mine.’_

_‘Erm okay’, Molly said, feeling odd, and apprehensive all of a sudden. ‘What invitation?’_

_‘I have to attend a party hosted by the Mayor’, Mycroft said, as though meeting the Mayor of London was no big deal. ‘However, I am short of a plus one, and wondered whether you would be kind enough to accompany me’._

_Molly felt as though she would choke on her own spit, and her heart started beating very fast._

_‘What, m-me?’, Molly said. ‘I don’t- I don’t know anything about politics! I mean, I know who our prime minister is, of course, and when I need to vote for…‘_

_Molly’s voice trailed off._

_‘I assure you, none of that is necessary’, Mycroft said, his eyes incredibly bright. He smiled pleasantly, and Molly was starting to find it hard to understand what was happening, and how to breathe._

_‘I, erm, I don’t have a dress’, Molly said, looking down._

_‘Anthea will take care of that’, Mycroft said. ‘She would love an opportunity to outfit you for the occasion.’_

_‘Okay’, Molly said, not sure about what to do now. ‘I guess…I guess, I-I come then.’_

_Mycroft stepped a little closer to her._

_‘Splendid’, he said, softly._

_She tried to not squeak, or do anything equally embarrassing as Mycroft left her in the empty office._

_If Molly was interpreting everything correctly, Mycroft Holmes had just invited her to a party, as his date._

 

‘….Oh my, I don’t have any of those wafer biscuits you love, Molly dear, what with the short notice, I didn’t think to go to Tesco today’, Mrs Hudson chattered, digging into the back of her kitchen cupboards. ‘My varicose veins have been playing up, and the cold, you know.’

 

Molly nursed her tea, looking at John, who was quiet besides her across the little table.

 

‘No, erm, its fine, Mrs Hudson’, Molly said. ‘Tea’s okay- it’s just a quick visit.’

‘Rich tea is fine, Mrs Hudson’, John supplied, quietly, smiling at Molly.

 

Molly noted the dark circles around his eyes, his worn smile, but also noticed the lack of downtrodden shoulders and sad eyes.

 

‘How’s Mary?’, Molly asked, having met the woman a week or so ago, and knew that the changes in John, however small, were due to her presence in his life.

 

‘It’s alright’, John said, genially. ‘She’s doing well, she said to say hi when I saw you. We’ve just moved in together.’

 

‘Really?’, Molly said, her voice somewhat higher, trying not to think of what Sherlock would have to say about this when he came back. ‘That’s-That’s great!’

 

Mrs Hudson coughed, walking back towards them.

 

‘What’s that then?’, Mrs Hudson said, putting down a plate of chocolate digestives and rich tea biscuits. ‘It’s so nice that both of you came together, its been such a long time since I’ve had a good chat- of course there’s Mrs Turner next door, but that old biddy was ever so horrible about Sherlock.’

 

John flinched at the name, and Molly fought the urge to hug him, while trying very hard not to feel guilty. Many nights, even now, Molly tossed and turned, worrying about Sherlock and how it would affect John when he would find out what they had done, what _she_ had done.

 

‘And you, Molly dear’, Mrs Hudson said, fussing with her tea. ‘I haven’t seen John in a year, did you know, a year! What are you going to do after this meeting then, not come back for another year?’

 

‘Sorry, Mrs Hudson’, John said, choking on his biscuit. ‘It’s just been….busy’.

 

Molly knew what John was trying to say. What he couldn’t say was that 221 Baker Street was more than a little hard to bear. It was the same even for her, so she could only guess how John felt. None of them had even thought about going upstairs.

 

‘Busy, busy!’, Mrs Hudson said. ‘This generation, always working- you’ve get exhausted, I’m telling you, and then you’ll need a hip replacement from all that running around-‘

 

‘Yes, I know, Mrs Hudson’, John interrupted, and then looked at Molly. ‘Thank you for the concern. What are you doing these days, Molly?’

 

Molly blinked hard and looked down at her biscuit.

 

‘N-Nothing much’, Molly said, fidgeting. ‘Just work, you know, same as usual. Erm, nothing’s changed.’

 

Molly’s head swarmed with all the changes that had occurred in her life in the last year, and quickly realised all of it consisted of Mycroft. From the minute he had looked at her in his characteristic piercing stare, a lot had changed, she had changed- for some reason, whenever she talked to Mycroft, she felt the need to be noticed, to be taken seriously, to be _understood_.  

 

‘You should come by more often, Molly, dear’, Mrs Hudson said, patting her hand. ‘You’ve been wanting my recipe of the chocolate brownies, I could teach you. It’s been so quiet here, nobody comes around any more, not even criminals, let alone John, that handsome detective fellow, or-what’s his name- Sherlock’s brother, I don’t-‘

 

‘Keep away from him’, John suddenly said, his face full of anger. His eyes were dark, and his frown lined his face deeper than before. ‘If he comes here, let me know, Mrs Hudson, and I’ll come get rid of him.’

 

‘No, it’s quite alright, he’s very polite,’ Mrs Hudson said. ‘He was awfully rude when I first met him, but he was very kind at Sherlock’s funeral-‘

 

‘He’s responsible for-‘, John seemed to choke on his own breath. ‘He’s responsible for _everything_ , so if he comes here, tell him to get out’.

 

John turned to look at Molly. Gulping hard, Molly looked away from him, willing herself to keep a straight face.

 

‘You asked me about him’, John said, quietly. ‘When we first met, after…’

 

‘Erm, yes’, Molly said. ‘It wasn’t…It wasn’t important.’

 

John stared at her, and then swallowed hard. Molly looked at him carefully, seeing the unshed tears in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched almost involuntarily, as if he was in pain.

 

‘What did My-What did Mr Holmes do?’, Molly asked, slightly scared to know the answer.

 

John looked down again, still swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple moving rapidly.

 

‘What didn’t he do?’, John said, his voice empty of any kind of emotion.

 

//

 

Molly sat in the middle of a shopping centre, on a bench reserved for the elderly.

 

_What on earth am I doing?_

 

She knew nothing about Mycroft, nothing that really mattered. Everyone, it seemed, including his own brother, had told her Mycroft was bad news, but-

 

Molly closed her eyes, and tried not to cry, her hair falling over her face as a coverlet of her shame.

 

_I am pathetic._

 

She knew nothing about Mycroft, but she knew he was the first person to notice her, to be kind to her in a long time- and to tell her that she mattered, because she couldn’t remember the last time someone gave her a present, even ones like an umbrella or a bunch of flowers, and hadn’t used it to barter for something she needed. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to talk to someone with her whole heart, meaning every word she stuttered out, and yet she had told Mycroft everything about what she had done for Sherlock and what it had done to her.

 

But more than that, more than all the kind words and smiles that seemed trained only at her- above all that was the way he looked at her; like she was someone interesting, as though she counted in the grand scheme of things.

 

And that reason, more than anything else, told Molly that she was doomed.

 

‘It’s just a crush’, Molly said to herself, ignoring the crying children and happy shoppers around her. ‘It’ll go away-It will. This isn’t any different from Sherlock no matter what you think-‘

 

Molly gulped hard, staring at her shoes.

 

_Why does it feel different?_

//

 

It turned out that Anthea didn’t enjoy dressing her up as much as Mycroft had assured her.

 

She seemed almost solemn most of the time, looking oddly angry and weary at once, while elegantly carrying a bag of cosmetics into Molly’s flat, as well as a large, wide box that had ‘Elie Saab’ embossed on it.

 

‘Are you okay?’, Molly asked, tentatively, as Anthea fastened the back of her dress. The dress was beautiful, a cream that looked almost nude, with golden beads covering the entire length, and was definitely the most showy thing Molly had ever worn. The dress also revealed a lot more of her cleavage and legs than she was comfortable with, although the cream shoes Anthea had also brought helped, making her legs seem longer. Several times, Molly had opened her mouth to complain, only to close it when she saw the look on Anthea’s face.

 

‘I’m fine’, Anthea said, fastening the dress a little too tight. She pushed Molly down to sit at her dressing table, and began to do something strange with Molly’s hair. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

 

‘N-No, you just seem a little...off,’ Molly said, a ball of worry building up in her stomach. ‘This party might be a bad idea.’

 

Anthea’s face softened, and brushed Molly’s hair a bit more carefully; a few deft movements with her fingers, and Molly’s hair was in an elegant bun, something Molly knew she would never manage in a million years.

 

‘You look very pretty’, Anthea said. ‘I wish I had your skin, you never seem to have any spots, you weird freak of nature’.

 

Molly gaped at her in the mirror. ‘You never have spots.’

 

‘I’m good at covering them’, Anthea retorted. ‘There’s a difference. Not everyone is perfect. Now, budge, I need to change your face.’

 

Anthea sat down on the chair with Molly, and proceeded to pull out powders, eyeliners and lipsticks from her bag.

 

‘Is all that necessary?’

 

‘Yes’, Anthea said, firmly, waving a Chanel lipstick in the air. ‘Now shut up, I’m getting lipstick on your teeth.’

 

By the time Anthea was done, Molly was having a panic attack, because the person in the mirror didn’t look like her at all. Whatever Anthea had put on her face made her skin look flawless; her dark circles had disappeared and her eyes seemed bigger somehow.

 

Fastening a chain with a butterfly pendant around Molly’s neck, Anthea moved away and regarded her work. Molly felt nervous, her palms sweating. Something felt out of place, and the ball of worry in her stomach wouldn’t fade, feeling as though it would swallow her whole.

 

‘Remember that’, Anthea said, suddenly. Molly frowned, confused.

 

‘Remember what?’, Molly said.

 

‘Nobody is perfect’, Anthea said again, softly. ‘It’s good advice.’

 

///

 

When Mycroft had instructed Anthea to dress Molly, he had not expected the woman to appear uncannily similar to every other society woman in the room, dressing her exactly as a woman he would wind around his fingers, if she had anything he needed

her to give.

 

He needed her to remain discrete about Sherlock, Mycroft reminded himself, an odd motion flickering in his chest. She would be quiet about Sherlock.

 

Despite the point of the exercise, Mycroft had to admit that Dr Hooper had so far done an admirable job, without any encouragement or, indeed, his aid to beginning with- a factor that he chose not to accept. Everyone needed incentive, and no one was altruistic without a reason. Sooner or later, he was sure Molly would want something in return for her services to his brother, and it would do well for him to control her before it went out of hand. He’s learnt his lesson with Moriarty.

 

He nodded at the Mayor as he entered the hall, Molly holding on tight to the crook of his arm.

 

 **Read:** Flickering eyes, often moving to the floor, suggests Molly is worried about tripping. She is unused to high heel shoes, also the revealing manner of her dress. The grip of her fingers of his elbow suggested a low self esteem was at play, possibly about the high profile guests in the room, some of which she recognises. More likely, however, she is worried about her appearance. Nonsense. The colour of the dress accents the tone of her skin, creating a polished look, drawing attention to her….bust... and legs. Since Molly wasn’t here to draw other male attention to herself, Mycroft would need to reprimand Anthea, once again, for not doing as she was told.

 

However, he decided that he would enjoy the overall effect. Aesthetics could be pleasing, and served well for him to remember that it was Molly’s current -more revealing- manner of dress that was agreeable rather than the woman herself.

 

‘I can’t believe I’m in the same room as the prime minister’, Molly whispered to Mycroft. He smiled at her, looking ahead of them. It didn’t matter how Anthea dressed her, Molly would behave as herself no matter where she was- this was strangely comforting, Mycroft found.

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft said, not pointing out that he had attended university with the prime minister. ‘However, he is an ordinary person, like you and I. He enjoys golf, and makes sure to never miss an episode of X factor, I believe.’

 

Molly’s arm shook against the sleeve of his suit jacket, her face slightly pink.

 

 **Read:** The shade and movement of her cheeks suggest that she is trying not to laugh, her constrain indicating she thought his sentence was scandalous somewhat, possibly information she feels she should not know, in a sense of loyalty. Interesting.

 

‘Apparently X factor is most inspiring,’ Mycroft informed her. ‘It comes highly recommended. I’ve been told it is an excellent example of the triumph of the human spirit.’

 

There was a spluttering sound, and Molly was now giggling, albeit quietly. Mycroft found he could not help but join, although for a brief moment. It would not do to look uncivilised in front of one’s host, although it was proving easier than he had calculated to impress Molly.  Mycroft regarded her for what was the seventh time that evening. With her shoes, Molly now came up to Mycroft’s chin in height, while previously only just meeting his shoulders- this caused an unnecessary lapse in his judgement of the whereabouts of her face, leading him too often looking at her chest instead of her face.

 

Diverting his thoughts, Mycroft caught the eye of Harry, who had moved towards Molly and himself. Time to work, he thought.

 

 **Read** : The way to control Molly is not through her vanity- Molly isn’t interested in her appearance like most women, and most likely will not be fully responsive. Some well placed comments how she looks shall lead the way, but will not pave it. No, referral to her work shall make a nice starter indeed.

 

‘Mycroft, dear fellow’, Harry said, amiably, patting Mycroft’s arm. ‘It feels like it has been a while since I last saw you.’

 

‘Yet somehow it has only been but a week’, Mycroft said, matching his tone. He nodded at Molly. ‘Harry, I would like to introduce Dr Molly Hooper, resident forensic pathologist of St Bartholomew’s hospital. Molly, this is Harold Smithen’s, the royal equerry.’

 

Molly’s eyes widened as she shook Harry’s hand.

 

‘Pleasure to meet you, Dr Hooper’, Harry said, his eyes flickering to Mycroft. ‘I must say, I don’t know what you’re doing with this old cod, your beauty eclipses him completely.’

 

 **Read:** Harry is a moron. Despite knowing Mycroft’s motive, he chooses to deflect attention. Suggests typical alpha male behaviour, something he must prevent.

 

‘T-Thank you’, Molly said, obviously dazzled. A curl fell out of her previously neat bun, and Mycroft ignored the itch to tuck it back into place ( **Read:** for neatness’s sake).

 

‘While it is true Dr Hooper is looking exceptional today’, Mycroft inserted. ‘I believe it would be impolite to ignore her accomplishments. Shameful, Harry, shameful.’

 

Harry’s face did a strange, yet satisfying dance of expressions (read: he had not expected to be rebukes so strongly, is trying to make amends).

 

‘My apologises, of course’, Harry said, eyes moving back to Molly. ‘You must be very accomplished indeed, for I believe your role is a prestigious one. I did not mean to undermine that.’

 

‘No!’, Molly said, her voice shrill. ‘No- Th-That’s fine. It’s an okay job, really. It pays the bills.’

 

Molly laughed nervously, and Harry blinked.

 

‘Indeed’, Harry said, dutifully.

 

‘You undermine yourself, Molly’, Mycroft said. ‘Your work is complex and one of great sensitivity. I have seen you perform admirably in many occasions.’

 

Molly blushed, her neck turning an interesting shade of scarlet. Harry smirked at Mycroft.

 

‘If you excuse us, Harry, I think I need to introduce Molly to the Salter’s family’, Mycroft said. ‘They have been watching us for some time.’

 

Mycroft held out his arm for Molly, who quickly took it and walked with him. Her eyes were faced down and the red of her cheeks had not yet died down. A burn built up at the bottom of Mycroft’s stomach, shooting rapidly downwards. Mycroft swallowed.

 

All that mattered right now was that his ploy was working.

 

For the next few hours, Mycroft felt as though he had spoken to more people than he had in the last month. It was necessary in order to manipulate Molly, and he sporadically wove stories of her excellence into their conversations with various groups of people, and watched Molly become more and more shy. He moved his hand slowly downwards to play with the skin with her lower forearm, and watched Molly’s pupils dilate, her eyes shining.

 

‘Mr Holmes’.

 

Mycroft’s thoughts bolted in several directions as he turned his head.

 

_How-_

 

‘Hello’, Molly said, smiling at the woman in front of them.

 

In front of them stood the Baroness, dressed in all her finery, glaring at Mycroft with a look of disgust and anger. In horror, Mycroft watched the Baroness look towards him with an icy glare.

 

_I have miscalculated._

Mycroft Holmes never miscalculated- there were times when the calculations were slightly skewed, an outcome unpredicted; but he never outright miscalculated, much less in front of his peers.

 

‘What is this, Mycroft?’, the Baroness said, her voice loud and strong. Molly looked warily between her and Mycroft. As Mycroft moved away from Molly, her face changed from wariness to betrayal.

 

 _Damage control._ At the moment, his job was more important than Molly’s feelings.

‘Ah, Baroness’, Mycroft said, swiftly. ‘You have decided to attend. You should have called, I would have been delighted to accompany you’

 

The baroness lifted her chin to look straight at him, her very form vibrating with anger. Mycroft knew it was too late to repair the damage.

 

‘Obviously you have found a replacement’, the Baroness spat, eying Molly with disdain. ‘Obviously, I was unimportant!’

 

‘Please forgive me, but you have misunderstood-,’ Mycroft began.

 

‘I do not misunderstand!’, The Baroness bellowed. The chatter around them died, as everyone turned to look at them. ‘You have taken me for a fool! I see what you have planned now- my husband said that all politicians are nothing but honey-tongued and now I can see he was correct-‘

 

‘It was nothing of the sort-‘, Mycroft said, but was interrupted again. This, by far, was the worst thing to happen in his career.

 

‘People told me not to listen to you’, the Baroness said, her hair flying as she pointed at him. ‘They told me you were a manipulative ice man. They were right.’

 

_‘He calls you the ice man’, said Irene Adler, her eyes dancing._

Mycroft looked at her sharply. ‘Who said that to you?’

 

The Baroness breathed hard, a strange fire in her eyes. As quickly as it came, the fire was gone, and replaced by one of sorrow.

 

 **Read:** The Baroness is faking. The phrasing is the sentence does not feel like a coincidence, more like a trap.

 

‘I do not wish to talk to you anymore’, the Baroness said. ‘I am very upset.’

 

She looked over at Molly, who had been forgotten in the commotion. Mycroft noted, with a twist of his stomach, that her eyes were red, her shoulders drooped.

 

‘Listen to me, girl’, the Baroness said. ‘Stay away from this one. He’s nothing but bad for you.’

 

Molly flinched hard, her whole body shaking. The Baroness looked at Mycroft one last time, and then began to walk away.

 

Breathing deeply, Mycroft looked around to see the Mayor, and nodded at him sharply. The Mayor nodded back and then went to the front, and clapped his hands. Everyone stopped looking at Mycroft, and began chatting as normal.

 

Mycroft turned to look at Molly, who wasn’t looking at him.

 

 **Read:** The damage was done.

 

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, softly. Molly quickly shook her head, her eyes filled with unshed tears.

 

‘No’, she said, her hands shaking. ‘I want to- I want to go home. Now.’

 

Mycroft looked at her for a moment. She was breathing hard but she looked straight at him, her face clearer than before.

 

‘Please’.

 

///

 

The car ride back to her flat was quiet and tense, but Molly found she didn’t care. Her throat was burning with sobs she refused to let out, her ribs hurting with the effort of staying quiet. But she wouldn’t let herself cry, she won’t, not in front of _him_ , not in front of Mycroft.

 

She looked out of the window, the space between herself and Mycroft feeling like a gulf, his presence uncomfortable in a way it had never been between them.

 

She swallowed hard, keeping down her tears.

 

She was an idiot.

 

‘S-so’, Molly said, trying to keep herself calm. She felt Mycroft jerk next to her. ‘So it was a game? W-with that woman?’

 

A silence filled the car.

 

‘Yes’, Mycroft said, and the answer felt more honest and piercing than anything else he had ever said to her. ‘She and her husband are part of an important political party. It was necessary for me to keep her happy.’

 

‘H-happy?’, Molly said, her voice breaking. ‘You- You call that keeping her happy?’

 

Mycroft didn’t answer.

 

‘Is…is that what you were doing to me too?’, Molly said, her heart thumping. ‘What have I done for you to need to keep me _happy_?’

 

‘Look at me’, Mycroft demanded, suddenly.

‘Why?’, Molly said, her voice too high. No matter what she did, she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t affected, that she didn’t care.

 

‘Look at me’, Mycroft repeated. Molly breathed in and out, and then looked at him.

 

Mycroft’s face was oddly unarranged, no longer blank, no longer the usual expressionless mask. She saw a tired man, his weariness etched into the canvas of lines on his forehead. But all Molly cared about was that she couldn’t see any regret, any _remorse._

 

‘What-What could you possibly want from me?’, Molly said, her voice croaking.

 

‘You know about Sherlock. That was enough’, Mycroft said, looking past Molly. Not seeing Molly. ‘I live in a world where no one under my employ, let alone a civilian, can be trusted to keep a secret. However, it was never my intention to hurt you.’

 

_My brother is a dangerous man. Keep away from him._

Molly choked on her own voice.

 

‘You wanted me to keep a secret’, Molly said. ‘That I’ve already been keeping secret? T-That I kept secret from you for months? For a genius, how can you be so _s-stupid_?’

 

Mycroft said nothing. Something burst in Molly, opening a dam of conflicting emotions, and she felt it pore out of her, like blood at a crime scene.

 

_He’s responsible for everything._

‘You manipulated me, made me think-‘, Molly said, her voice racked with trapped sobs. ‘You did it for NOTHING! Do I mean n-nothing to you? As…as a friend?’

 

The end of her sentence came out louder than she expected, ringing in her ears. Mycroft said nothing, didn’t react, but his face became more muted, and she could feel him distancing himself from her mentally.

 

‘I c-can’t’, Molly said. ‘I’m s-sick of people like you. You’re a-always so-so’.

 

She knew she sounded like an idiot, her face a mess of make up and trapped tears, but she couldn’t think of one reason to care. She had been naïve, she realised, to fall for the same trick again, to believe people that no one else trusted just because she wanted to think they were different, and then be betrayed. But for once, just this once, she had wanted to believe that this was different, and that Mycroft was interested in her for _herself._

‘Let me out’, Molly said. ‘I want to get out of the car.’

 

Mycroft stared at her, his frown deepening. He looked tired.

 

‘We’ll reach your home in a short while’, Mycroft said, quietly.

 

‘Please’, Molly said, with gritted teeth. ‘I just want to go.’

 

‘I understand you are angry with me,’ Mycroft insisted. ‘But I wish to explain my intentions for today. If you would let me-‘

 

‘I d-don’t care anymore’, Molly said, her voice weak, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I d-don’t care why you did it. I just know you-you didn’t care about me. Let me out’

 

Mycroft stared at her for a few seconds, and Molly’s heart flipped as his eyes sought hers. Then, Mycroft turned away, his face looking even more tired than before

 

‘You looked beautiful today’, he said, the words so quiet that Molly barely heard him, and his face was turned towards the window so she couldn’t see his face. ‘I won’t force my company on you any longer’.

 

 

Mycroft asked the driver to stop, and Molly scrabbled for the door handle, hurling herself out into the freezing cold of the night air. She closed the door without looking back, and walked aimlessly towards a shop nearby. Waiting, she saw the Jaguar slowly move away from the pavement and drive off.

 

Watching the car from a distance, Molly crouched on the pavement, covered her face with her hands and cried.

 

_You forget that you do count, Dr Hooper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! Please, please review, because these seriously help me write the stories, and really, the amount of support I have received for this story so far has been amazing. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also, i now have a tumblr account for my stories- i welcome prompts, questions etc so please follow me if you use tumblr too: http://bloglavictoire.tumblr.com/


	11. I'm Already Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things always get worse before they get better. Molly struggles. So does Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. I also don’t own The Notebook etc.  
> Author's Notes: Hello again! I’ll try not to ramble this time because I have the migraine from hell right now, but can’t rest until I’ve posted this chapter. You guys will hate me again, because there’s another cliff-hanger at the end- from now on, this story is a bit of a rollercoaster, so hold on to your socks! I’m incredibly worried about this chapter, but no need to worry about that.  
> Just to avoid confusion, I want to make clear who some of the OC’s in this are:  
> \- Laura: The receptionist at Molly’s place of work, and also sort of a friend to Molly.  
> \- Lars: The lab assistant/ body guard that Mycroft replaced Anthea with to keep an eye on Molly at work. 
> 
> As usual, this chapter was beta’d by Adalind, who is a lovely human, who is very supportive and great to talk to. Thank you so much for your help.
> 
> This chapter is named after the lyrics of ‘Fairytale’, by Alexander Rybak.
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

 

A month had gone by, with the tediousness of tired eyes over long nights, and the burn of scotch poured down his throat.

 

Crises on two different continents occurred at the same time, and Mycroft was kept busy, ferociously so. He never held much by his mother’s old saying, but the thought bore on him now, refusing to leave: when disaster struck once, it struck twice and thrice, with a togetherness that could only be matched by a mariachi band.

 

He decided to push this thought out of his head, ‘delete’ it, as Sherlock would have said- his brother did have the most curious habit of dramatising every skill he owned,. However, the skill of ‘deleting’ was preferable to ‘forgetting’; as Mycroft had to admit to himself that the biggest disaster that refused to leave him was, still, the events that underwent at the Mayor’s party. Mycroft was not a man to feel guilty for his actions, to throw blame or to delve deeply into his misfortunes.

 

He, as he was oft to remind himself and others, was not a man with _regrets._

 

The crises in the eastern continents worsened and Mycroft found himself becoming almost incomprehensible to his peers and subordinates with frustration and rage. He schemed, he interrogated, and he delegated work. Most of all, Mycroft spent hours upon hours in Diogenes, in his familiar chair with his eyes closed hoping, if not for some inner peace, then some semblance of an outer calm image. He was not worried- he had dealt with much worst scenarios in the course of his career, and had borne it all with a persona of tranquillity and authority. He would not fail now.

 

Molly Hooper’s face swam under his eyelids, twisting and contorting into a whirlpool of colours and broken lines. The pulsing headache at his temples reached a new height, and Mycroft no longer felt like he understood his own mind. The silence of the club was aggravating, bothersome.

 

Back at his office, with Anthea sitting quietly at his side, Mycroft was resigning to his frustration with a tiredness that had become second skin, and he finally allowed his shoulders to fall. Anthea said nothing. She delegated on his behalf, managed his appointments, and made his calls. Aside from when work necessitated it, Anthea had said nothing the entire month.

 

‘Your 3 o’clock conference call, sir’, Anthea said into the silence, holding up a laptop. Mycroft waved it away, rubbing a hand against his temple.

 

‘Allow me five minutes, and I shall do so’, Mycroft said, looking at his desk.

 

The silence continued for 10.5 seconds, and Anthea stood frozen in her position.

 

‘I don’t think it’s Korea that is frustrating you, sir’, Anthea said, finally. His tone was quiet.

 

 **Read:** Disapproving. Disappointment. He noted a tinge of worry in her brow, and a resignation like his own.

 

Anthea put the laptop down, and walked away.

 

‘Just an observation’, Anthea said, before leaving. Mycroft watched her go, and sat alone in his office, drowning in his own mind.

 

//

 

A month had gone by. Molly knew she shouldn’t be counting the days since that terrible, terrible night, but she found she couldn’t help herself, and when she looked at her calendar it wasn’t for the day’s date.

 

She had not heard from Mycroft since she had jumped out of his car, the radio-silence from his end buzzing at the back of her mind, pulling back memories of that day when she least expected it. That evening, she had thrown the beautiful dress at the back of her wardrobe where she decided it would stay until she could give it back to Anthea, and she had scrubbed the remains of make up from her face until her skin was red and raw. But at night, when she was alone in the dark, she sobbed into her pillow, feeling as though she would choke on her misery, and loneliness would envelop her, threatening to swallow her whole.

 

Loneliness clung to her skin, her jumpers, every follicle of hair on her head. The silence in her flat was unbearable, and Toby began to avoid her as her moods swung one way to another. But she was determined this time, dedicated, to not letting it get to her, and this wouldn’t, she was sure of it. She was sick and tired of being a whisper of a person, quiet and timid to the rest of the world, underestimated as she had been her whole life. She had allowed herself to think, to believe, that someone, someone had seen something in her, seen her for what she actually was but was too afraid to show. She had been wrong, but she wasn’t going to be scared of the consequences anymore.

 

For once in her life, Molly told herself, she would be strong.

 

So she went to work. She worked overnight, she took on cases she normally refused. She didn’t cry when she had to deal with the corpse of a child, as she usually did, even though her heart drowned in sorrow at the sight of it. She had purple bruise-like marks under her eyes, Molly noted one day in the mirror, probably from the lack of sleep.

 

She avoided going out with Mike Stamford and his wife, with any of her colleagues. She didn’t phone her sister. The isolation got to her, and the nightmares came back. In them she dreamed she was being choked by Sherlock, who then turned into Moriarty. She woke up screaming her lungs out, and then crying loudly in the early hours of the morning, wishing she could rise above it all, get away from feeling _this_ much.

 

So she went to see Mrs Hudson again, asked her to teach her to make her famous biscuits, to make a coconut-lime cake. The woman was comforting and chattered away, the warmth of the kitchen thawing out the cold wrapped around Molly’s heart. But most of all, Molly just wished her mother was alive, just so she could say she wasn’t alone.

 

 _Being this lonely would kill me_ , Molly thought absently one day at work. _One day I’ll do something stupid, just to stop being lonely._

Molly was determined that she wouldn’t. So she made plans with Anthea, someone who understood loneliness and exile.

 

Anthea didn’t belong to Mycroft, even if she did remind her of him. And try as she might, Molly knew that there was never any point in trying to forget everything about a bad incident, especially the little good that came out of it. She would, she will, Molly knew, get better.

 

The following night, Molly didn’t have a nightmare, and she woke up without purple bruises on her eyes.

 

//

 

Mycroft frowned at the paper in front of him.

 

‘Anthea’, he said, as the woman walked in front of him. ‘Why do I have a meeting with the deputy prime minister ahead of schedule?’

 

Anthea shrugged. ‘I happened to mention that you were available today at 2 o’clock to talk about the budget plans.’

 

Mycroft stared at her. ‘I thought I told you to delay him as long as possible.’

 

Anthea sat down in front of him.

 

‘What can I say’, she said, in an innocent look. ‘He was very persistent.’

 

 **Read:** he was being punished. Mycroft had not been punished since he had been twelve years old, and that had been because he had taken the blame for Sherlock’s the water balloon experiment. **Plan of action:** nothing. This had never happened before. Curious, yet unsatisfactory solution.

 

‘Very well’, Mycroft sighed.

 

//

 

‘Tom would still like to meet you’, Laura said, leaning on a lab table. Molly wondered whether she knew what had been on it two hours earlier. ‘If you’re interested.’

 

Molly pulled out her lab coat, and thought of yellow roses and umbrellas. She thought of being _happy_ and moving on from….that, from anything like that, away from anything to do with Sherlock.

 

‘Maybe’, Molly said, quietly. ‘Ask me again at the end of the week.’

 

‘Yay!’, Laura said, as though Molly had said yes. ‘You’ll love him.’

 

//

 

Mycroft sat at his desk, glass of scotch at his side, with his hands folded under his chin. Anthea worked quietly in front of him, her blackberry pinging incessantly. Mycroft found he didn’t mind the noise, a matter that worried him. He had always preferred silence above all else, finding the quiet refreshing for his mind. But his mind was stifled with roaming thoughts, and he knew it wasn’t wise to encourage them.

 

‘Anthea’, Mycroft said, thoughtfully. His assistant looked up, her hair flying as she hid her surprise at his utterance.

 

‘Yes, sir?’, Anthea said. ‘Was the noise bothering you?’

 

‘No, that’s quite alright’, Mycroft said. ‘I have a question to ask you. I would like you to answer truthfully.’

 

Anthea raised her eyebrow. ‘I have never been dishonest with you, sir’.

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft said, looking away from her. He shuffled his papers, allowing his hand to dither on the mahogany polish of his desk.

 

‘You have been under my employ for twelve years, 3 months, and 22 days,’ Mycroft said, calmly. ‘You have been acquainted with my person and affairs as has been necessary with the work, for a prolonged period of time.’

 

‘If that’s your way of saying I’ve known you for long enough to know how annoying you can be, then yes’, Anthea said, snarkily, before looking at him questioningly.

 

‘Anthea’, Mycroft reprimanded, gently. Anthea smiled for the first time in the last month.

 

‘Sorry, sir’, she said.

 

Mycroft was still not looking at her, and he found himself easing himself way from her in his chair.

 

‘Am I a bad person?’, Mycroft asked, bluntly and to the point. Anthea stared at him, her eyebrows arched in surprise. She quickly re-arranged them, her mouth closing in annoyance.

 

‘Sir’, Anthea said. ‘I would not still be here after twelve years, three months and twenty-two days if you were.’

 

Mycroft looked up at her, and for a moment he felt something break in his chest. He allowed himself a millisecond of emotion, before he resumed his blank expression. Anthea looked back and smiled at him.

 

‘Please call Molly’, Anthea said, her voice turning desperate. ‘She’s been making me watch ‘The Notebook’ on repeat for a week now, and as much as you know I love Ryan Gosling, I’m _this_ close to planning the assassination of the makers of that film.’

 

//

Two days after she talked to Laura about Tom, she received white tulips at work, the flowers looking beautiful and entirely too expensive to be inside her cramped office.

 

‘Who are they from?’, Molly asked Laura, who was watching her curiously.

 

‘No note’, Laura said. ‘The woman that brought them here was quite rude though, and said that she had hated working here. Wait- wasn’t that the girl that used to work with you? The creepy silent one-‘

 

‘Alice’, Molly cut in. ‘yes, erm. She’s quite vocal about how much she hates my job. I mean, this job. Erm, its okay- I have to get going now, Laura, thank you for bringing the flowers.’

 

Two autopsies later, Molly found herself looking of the flowers on the internet.

 

_Denotes that the sender wishes for your forgiveness, a fresh start and purity of mind._

Molly didn’t know much, but she was pretty sure she wasn’t capable of anything near a purity of mind. The rest of that was also, just as impossible. Her heart leaped as she read it, and she felt something grow in her chest without her control. She tried to push it down, pummel it to death, but it grew just the same.

 

_He’s saying he’s sorry. Without actually saying it._

Molly was surprised, knowing that apologies didn’t come easy to either Holmes, but she tried not to think about it. As she remembered the night of the party, her mood soured, and the bright white of the flowers yellowed in her eyes.

 

_I live in a world where no one under my employ, let alone a civilian, is trusted to keep a secret._

There, in that sentence, in that thought, Molly knew, was her answer. Mycroft would never trust her, think of her as a friend or anything beyond just an acquaintance. To him, she was someone….simple enough to help Sherlock, a naïve little girl that was of use to him. He thought her weak-minded and powerless in her own right, thought she needed encouraging, charming, to keep her quiet about Sherlock. Mycroft Holmes didn’t understand the power of trust, of friendship, of love and companionship. He didn’t know what she would do for people that she cared about.

 

She held the flowers in her arms, looking at their beauty one more time. Then she shoved them quickly into the yellow rubbish bag meant for the incinerator.

 

//

 

It wasn’t over though.

 

Molly sat on her bed at home, wearing pyjamas and ready to go to bed. She listened carefully to the man talking to her on the phone.

 

‘W-What do you mean, it has been paid?’, Molly said, bewildered. ‘I didn’t apply for a university course!’

 

The admissions officer on the line seemed to be getting annoyed.

 

‘Well, we have a filled out application for you to study a two-year part time master’s degree,’ the man said, with authority. ‘I also have a document here stating you have paid the required deposit and have already paid the entire tuition fee for the two years and are ready to start this coming September’.

 

‘I-I didn’t’, Molly started. She was beyond confused, and had no idea what to say.

 

‘-Look’, the man said. ‘If you would like to withdraw the tuition money and your application, you can let me know now and we can proceed with-‘

 

‘No-No’, Molly said. She had wanted to do this course for so long, but with the high fees, she had never even tried to apply. ‘Can you tell me w-what the name is under the tuition f-fee payment?’

 

Molly could hear the man flipping through the papers.

 

‘There’s no proper details here- credit card details et cetera’, The man said. ‘I just have a bank account addressed to a M Holmes. Would you like to withdraw your application.’

 

Molly was pretty sure she had forgotten how to breathe.

 

‘Yes. N-No!’, Molly said. ‘No. Can I call back later?’

 

‘Certainly’, the man said. ‘We’re here to help.’

 

‘Thank you’, Molly said, and clicked her phone off, throwing it onto the floor.

 

She breathed heavily, her heart pounding in her ears.

 

_He’s watching me._

//

 

Molly didn’t know what she was doing. She just knew she looked stupid, but she didn’t care.

 

She rushed to Mycroft’s workplace, found Anthea and demanded to see Mycroft right now.

 

‘He’s with someone-‘, Anthea said, her face shining with curiosity.

 

‘-I don’t care’, Molly said, with a rare rudeness that made her cringe inside. Her blood was pumping hard, and the anger that she felt was the only reason she was still there. ‘I want to talk to him now.’

 

Anthea said nothing, and took her arm, leading her to Mycroft’s office as people around them stared at Molly. She knew her face must be red, her hair still a mess from the wind outside, but she ignored them.

 

‘Just go through’, Anthea said, when they reached Mycroft’s door. ‘Just don’t tell him I brought you here. He’ll know I did it, but I rather it stayed off the records.’

 

Molly nodded quickly and pushed past her. She opened Mycroft’s door with a rush, practically throwing herself inside.

 

Mycroft was behind his desk, as always, and in mid-sentence. He looked up at her, his mouth open in a show of surprise she hadn’t seen before.

 

‘Molly-‘, Mycroft began. Molly ran towards him, and then slapped him hard across the face. Her height meant she only really hit his chin, and despite the full force of the slap, her deliberation just before she did it meant that it hurt her as much as it probably had hurt him.

 

Mycroft stared at her, his eyes wide. For a second, Molly relished the look of surprise, anger and confusion on his face.

 

‘How d-dare you’, Molly said, knowing her voice was shrill and her face was red. ‘How dare you still-still _watch_ me on your cameras!’

 

‘Dr Hooper, let me explain-‘, Mycroft began, looking tensed.

 

‘N-No!’, Molly said, furious. ‘No! H-Have you bugged my computer as well? Where are your cameras? After every-everything you’ve done, why won’t y-you leave me alone?’

 

‘Molly, I’m afraid you may be mistaken’, Mycroft said quickly, still looking uneasy. ‘I have not been, as you say, watching you. I have removed the cameras outside your work place as your new laboratory assistant is very thorough and more than enough protection. There is still surveillance on your home, which Anthea is in charge of. I am only involved in case of emergencies, and therefore I am not aware of your day-to-day activities’.

 

‘You’re lying’, Molly said, her voice croaking with fury. ‘All I w-wanted was to be left alone, and you can’t e-even do that. How do you explain the university place?’

 

Mycroft looked at her, saying nothing.

 

‘Ah, the Master’s degree’, Mycroft said, calmly, his face blank again. ‘I was told that you were interested in attending the course. Forgive me if my sources were incorrect’.

 

Molly looked at him, bewildered.

 

‘Your sources,’ Molly said blankly. ‘Y-You mean your cameras.’

 

Mycroft looked, Molly thought, slightly annoyed now.

 

‘If I must repeat myself’, Mycroft said, looking annoyed. ‘I do not have any surveillance on your person at this moment in time. However, Lars provides me with the necessary security information, while Anthea mentioned to me of your interest in gaining a Master’s degree in Neuroscience. Was she incorrect?’

 

Molly gaped at him. ‘A-Anthea told you?’

 

‘Of course’, Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. His surprise face had long disappeared, and his blank expression had been replaced by one of curiosity. ‘Anthea is the common denominator between us, rather than CCTV cameras, which the deployed the use of quite a long time ago. I have to say I am rather surprised that you are this….agitated.’

 

‘Er-‘, Molly began. A loud cough came from behind her, and she was suddenly aware of how close to Mycroft she had become in their fight.

 

‘Sorry if I’m disturbing you’, said a woman from behind Molly. Molly turned around at her voice. The woman was elderly-looking, with thick grey hair and bright blue eyes-

 

_Oh My God._

‘Oh my God!’, Molly squeaked, jumping away from Mycroft, remembering that  Anthea had said that Mycroft was with someone. ‘I’m so sorry- I’ll j-just.’

 

‘Mummy’, Mycroft said, his voice dry and tense. ‘This is Dr Molly Hooper, Sherlock’s….friend. She aided him on his current, as you would say, occupation. Dr Hooper, this is my mother, Violet Westaway-Holmes.’

 

Violet’s eyes were just as piercing as her elder son’s, but they twinkled in a mysterious way that neither of her children’s did.

 

‘Y-You’re mummy Holmes!’, Molly said, and slapped a hand over her mouth. Next to her, Mycroft looked embarrassed and was obviously trying not to look it. ‘I’m s-sorry, it’s what John and I call you’.

 

Violet took Molly’s hand, silencing her. The elder woman smiled at her brightly.

 

‘It’s lovely to finally meet you’, Violet said. ‘When you say John, you mean John Watson, yes? I do wish Sherlock would let me meet him, but I’m afraid my son seems rather ashamed of me.’

 

‘I assure you he isn’t, mummy’, Mycroft said, dryly. ‘He just prefers to pretend he is above having parents that are still alive.’

 

‘Myc!’, Violet reprimanded, looking stern, and incredibly like Mycroft at the moment. Molly was still reeling from this turn of events. ‘Don’t talk rude of your brother.’

 

‘Sorry’, Mycroft said, quietly. Molly couldn’t believe that mummy Holmes had called Mycroft _Myc_ and that he was apologising.

 

_See, apologising isn’t that hard._

‘Erm’, Molly said. ‘You’ve heard of me.’

 

Violet sighed.

 

‘I’m afraid it was only in passing’, Violet said. ‘And I’m afraid my sons have still not learnt to talk to their mother properly. Why is Molly so upset, Myc dear?’

 

Mycroft looked at her blankly.

 

‘I’d….rather not talk about it in the open’, Mycroft said, finally.

 

Violent stayed silent, looking at her son carefully, and then at Molly. Molly blushed hard under the woman’s look, and she wished the ground would swallow her up. She had made a massive fool of herself seconds after meeting the woman, after years of not even knowing if she existed.

 

‘I, erm, I need to go’, Molly said, suddenly, unable to take it any longer. ‘I n-need to go back to work. It was nice to meet you, Mrs Holmes.’

 

Before anyone could say anything, Molly ran towards the door. Just as she was about to open it, she felt a warm hand placed lightly on her arm.

 

She looked around to see Mycroft standing next to her. He removed his hand, and stood straight.

 

‘I would like us to meet properly’, Mycroft said. ‘I would like to clear the air between us, so to speak.’

 

Molly opened the door. Mycroft was staring at her, a brief look of conflict on his face, his cheek slightly red from her slap. Molly felt ashamed, but at the same time felt that Mycroft had deserved it.

 

‘T-There’s no need’, Molly said. ‘I-I’m fine.’

 

Molly left quickly, wondering whether she had any dignity left.

//

 

‘I can’t believe you slapped Mycroft’, Anthea said, later that day, her mouth opened in awe.

 

Molly cringed, her face red. ‘Shut up’.

 

‘I think you’re my best friend’, Anthea confessed. ‘I knew there was a reason I liked you.’

 

Molly giggled.

 

//

 

Molly hadn’t heard from Mycroft in over a week, and she couldn’t help but feel a little relieved.

 

She still felt angry with him, but she was also embarrassed, and wondered what had made her do what she did. She tried not to think about it too much, but it kept her awake at night, and she knew, she really did, that she did it just so he knew that she was stronger than he thought she was. She hated it that she had left him thinking of her like a wounded rabbit, helpless and weary. She _wasn’t,_ she knew she wasn’t.

 

She walked to work and signed in, readying herself for a day’s work. She walked to her office without incident, donning her lab coat and tying her hair in a pony tail, to keep it out of her face.

 

‘Okay Lars, I think we have two bodies c-coming in today,’ Molly said, walking into the lab while reading a file in her hands. ‘They should be here within a h-hour if we’re-‘

 

Molly looked up, freezing in her tracks. In front of her, Mycroft was standing next to a microscope on a lab bench, looking interested in whatever was on it. Molly stared at him.

 

‘What are y-you doing here?’, Molly said. Mycroft smirked at her, swinging his (apparently second favourite) umbrella.

 

‘Good morning,’ Mycroft said simply. ‘I thought you were aware of our meeting.’

 

‘Meeting-‘, Molly said, confused. ‘B-but we aren’t- there isn’t any meeting.’

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

 

‘Interesting’, he said, sounding just that. Molly knew she must be flushing hard by now, trying not to seem interested, or even look at Mycroft. Even though she wasn’t looking at him now, she could hear him walking closer to her, and she could feel her body responding.

 

Just once, Molly wished, just once she wished she wouldn’t feel like this, _show_ that she felt like she did about Mycroft. As much as she knew she did care about him, she didn’t want to, now that she knew what he could do, that he could be even worse than Sherlock if he tried.

‘I distinctly recall telling you of this meeting the last time we met’, Mycroft said, genially. ‘I believe that was when you decided you wished to be acquainted with my mother-‘

 

‘I d-didn’t do that on purpose!’, Molly said, shrilly. ‘And I said I didn’t w-want to see you, remember? P-Please….just go.’

 

Mycroft looked at her carefully.

 

‘I would like to take you to dinner,’ Mycroft said, quietly. ‘If you are amenable, of course.’

 

Molly stared at him. ‘It’s morning. I just ate b-breakfast.’

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft said. ‘I meant this evening. Forgive me for my vagueness.’

 

Molly honestly wondered whether Mycroft had selective hearing. It was the only thing that made sense, Molly thought.

 

‘I said I want to be left alone’, Molly said, knowing her voice was still way too high and shrill to be taken seriously.

 

She moved past him, trying to ignore the waft of cologne she could smell as she walked past. She roughly put on latex gloves and got ready for her work.

‘I d-don’t know’, Molly said, her voice breaking. ‘I don’t think I want to t-talk to you anymore. I think it m-may be best if we stayed away from each other.’

 

Mycroft said nothing, as if he was waiting for a ‘but’.

 

‘You don’t n-need to worry’, Molly said. ‘I’ll keep….the secret. I was never actually going to tell John, since Sherlock told me not to. I-I’d think it was my place. So-So you don’t have to worry. Again.’

 

Mycroft still said nothing, just staring at her. Molly checked for sterilised equipment, walking quickly around the lab, feeling Mycroft’s stare boring into the back of her head.

 

‘I see’, he said, finally. ‘Very well.’

 

Molly gulped, waiting to hear his footsteps walking out, the ‘thud’ of the door as it swung open and close. It never came, and Molly turned around.

 

‘What are you still doing here?’, Molly said. Mycroft smiled.

 

‘I don’t wish to leave, I’m afraid, and you’ll find your staff will not be very helpful in removing me’, Mycroft said, his voice rough. ‘You’ll find I can be very persistent on matters I want paid attention to. I’m not going anywhere.’

 

The last sentence was said in a lower, deeper voice than Molly hadn’t heard him use in a long time, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle up. Her face heated up again.

 

‘But-‘, Molly said. ‘T-This is my lab!’

 

‘I will not stop you doing your work’, Mycroft said. ‘However, you will desist with this infernal stubborn behaviour and meet with me for dinner.’

 

‘What-‘, Molly said, anger welling up. ‘You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to!’

 

Mycroft smirked again.

 

‘How do you know?’, he said. Molly tried not to squeak and a silence filled the room, tension thick in the room.

 

‘F-fine’, Molly said. ‘S-stay here. I need to do my work.’

 

‘If you must’, Mycroft said, simply. ‘May I use your computer?’

 

//

 

Molly couldn’t believe he was _still_ there.

 

It had been a few hours and in that time she had autopsied and cleaned two bodies, and had begun to catalogue the information. She tried not to be distracted by the tall man sitting at the computer in the corner of the room, which was normally the coroner’s computer. He appeared to be emailing someone, and had filled that bench with his papers, looking very undisturbed by the dead bodies that came into the room, and the techniques she was using, which she knew would seem very gory to most non-medically educated people.

 

Finally, she stopped working.

 

‘It’s lunch time’, Molly said, her voice carrying towards Mycroft, who looked up. ‘Don’t you have work today?’

 

‘Certainly,’ Mycroft said. ‘However, one of the benefits of having a team working for you is that I am often able to move my work, if needs be.’

 

Molly’s stomach rumbled. Mycroft smiled at her, and Molly tried not to listen to her increasing heartbeats.

‘Would you like to join me for lunch?’, Mycroft said, his mouth quirking. Molly scowled at him.

 

//

 

Molly told herself it didn’t mean anything. Because it didn’t, it really didn’t. Mycroft had brought her to the bistro where they had first had eaten together, and Molly tried to ignore the pang in her stomach that reminded her of those times. Then she had truly believed that Mycroft, in some way, had been like her- grieving for everything that had happened to Sherlock, burdened with the secret of his fake death, and the deepening worry of not hearing from him. Now she knew they were as different as it was possible to be, and the thought hurt her, striking her in the stomach.

 

Molly ordered the risotto that she loved, and Mycroft ordered a salad nicoise.

 

‘I wish to explain my actions to you’, Mycroft began. ‘I know things have been…uneasy between us since the Mayor’s party, but I would like you to know that it was never my intention to cause harm or hurt you.’

 

Molly sighed.

 

‘I-I don’t want to talk about it’, Molly said dully, poking her food. ‘It’s m-my fault.’

 

Mycroft looked surprised. ‘Your fault?’

 

‘Y-Yes’, Molly said, gulping hard. ‘I don’t…I know what you’re like. Well, I know what S-Sherlock’s like. I should have known… I know you t-think I’m an idiot, but I’m not s-stupid.’

 

‘I do not believe that you are stupid’, Mycroft said. ‘However I don’t understand you. I’m afraid my brother and I are quite different’.

 

‘T-That’s it’, Molly said, waving her hands. ‘You’re not. S-sherlock…Sherlock’s always been m-mean to me, horrible sometimes. But he does it because he honestly doesn’t seem to realise, sometimes. Y-You…’

 

Molly’s voice trailed off. Mycroft looked at her intently.

 

‘Yes?’, He prompted, his face blank.

 

‘…You do it on p-purpose’, Molly said. ‘The B-Baroness was right. You manipulated her. Y-You manipulated me’.

 

And with that, all the hurt that Molly had bottled away, kept away during the daylight hours, tore through. A sob was trapped in her throat, and Molly tried to not choke on it.

 

Mycroft was looking at her strangely, as if he was confused, but Molly knew he wasn’t. He was a Holmes, and he knew exactly what she was going to say, and had probably already rehearsed his response, and how to manipulate her, in his head already.

 

‘I j-just’, Molly said, looking down at her food. ‘I’m l-lonely.’

 

Molly couldn’t believe she had said it out loud; the weeks and months, and year of desperately wishing she had someone to confide in, and thinking that person was Mycroft, and then finding out it wasn’t.

 

‘And I’m not’, Mycroft said, clearing his thought. ‘You should know that.’

 

‘I do know’, Molly said, knowing her voice was croaking. ‘I j-just wanted a friend.’

 

The word echoed around them, even in the bustling restaurant, and Molly’s awareness of Mycroft increased. All she wanted now was to get away from him now.

 

‘I-I’m sorry’, Molly said, standing up. ‘I need- I need to go.’

And with that, she walked out of the restaurant and walked out on Mycroft.

 

//

 

After a quick deduction, Mycroft found Molly in a nearby park, sitting by herself on a bench watching the children play.

 

Perhaps he should respect her wishes, and leave her. This was the right thing to do, the correct stance in this scenario.

 

Mycroft walked towards Molly, sitting next to her on the bench, making sure to leave a large gap between them.

 

‘I feel I should inform you that you have fifteen minutes before your lunch break is over’, Mycroft said.

 

‘I know’, Molly said, not looking surprised to see him. In fact, not looking at him at all.

 

Read: He found he could not read her. This was delving deeply into the realm of…emotion, something he was beginning to associate with Molly. This fact made it clear to him that he was ill-equipped for the situation. He could leave now, he knew, and Molly would not mind, would not say a word. Like she said, she knew ‘what he was like’. Apparently, he was more like Sherlock than he had thought.

 

For some reason, this did not sit well with Mycroft. As much as he wanted to leave, he found he could not leave Molly sitting there, miserable and alone. It was the one emotion he did understand, it was what it was like to be  miserable to your core. He also knew what it was to be alone, but he did not think of it negatively, as Molly appeared to. _Alone_ helped him, _alone_ was what had made him successful.

 

Fight or flight response, Mycroft knew. That was what he was experiencing. His intuition was telling him to leave, to fight by not fighting at all. But a part of him knew he wasn’t going along with that  .

 

‘Y-You never say it, you know,’ Molly said, suddenly. ‘You still haven’t said it.’

 

Mycroft blinked. ‘Forgive me. What have I not said?’

 

Molly laughed, her voice twinkly and high.

 

 **Read:** A laugh of despair.

 

‘Sorry’, Molly said. ‘You still haven’t said the word _sorry_ ’.

 

Mycroft thought carefully.

 

‘Would that help the situation?’, he asked.

 

‘No’, Molly said, finally. ‘What would help is i-if you would leave’.

 

 **Read:** She didn’t want him to leave.

 

Mycroft looked at his feet, moving his umbrella so the tip grazed the hard tarmac.

 

‘My occupation’, Mycroft began. ‘Is a rather difficult one to comprehend. It is one that affords me a great amount of pride about myself, I’m afraid. However, in order to be successful, to not be mistaken, it is imperative I do not take any individual at face value.’

 

‘W-What’, Molly said, rubbing her eye. ‘What does that even mean?’

 

‘It means I trust no one’, Mycroft said, clearly. ‘One wrong move could have disastrous consequences. What happened at the Mayor’s party was the very least damaging it could be.’

 

‘S-so….your job is dangerous’, Molly said, bluntly. ‘Do you get death threats? D-Do …people try to kill you?’

 

Mycroft looked at Molly. She turned to look at him.

 

‘Yes’, Mycroft said. ‘Constantly. But I have no reason to worry. Like I have said, I have an excellent team.’

 

Molly stared at him.

 

‘What I did for Sherlock was dangerous’, Molly said. ‘Now…s-someone is looking to kill me, you know.’

 

The words hit Mycroft like hot water.

 

 **Read:** Molly Hooper _understood._

 

‘But I don’t believe that everyone is bad until proven good’, she went on. ‘I don’t- I don’t know how you can live like that. How c-can you never feel alone?’

 

Mycroft knew he didn’t need to explain himself. But he felt like he should.

 

‘I am a better person if I am alone’, Mycroft said, shocking himself with his honesty. He frowned at his own words. ‘I would not do well to let someone get close. I am not…a good man. I have done things that have long removed any semblance of being such a person. Nor do I wish to be.’

 

Mycroft ignored Molly when she looked at him.

 

‘I-I don’t think anyone ever really wants to be alone’, Molly said. ‘I k-know…you have Sherlock. You have your m-mother. But haven’t you ever wanted a friend?’

 

 **Read:** This needed to stop. Now.

 

‘No’, Mycroft said, his voice sounding cold, even to him. ‘I have not.’

 

Molly was silent for a while, her quietness disturbing Mycroft, an itch under his skin.

 

‘If you’re not a good person,’ Molly said. ‘Then tell me one thing. A-And I’ll forgive you. For the-the party.’

 

Mycroft felt a rush of shock.

 

 **Read:** Her voice was quivering, more than before. Whatever the question was, a lot rode on it, at least for her. There was an 85.6% chance he could not answer it.

 

‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’, Molly asked, her voice quiet in the loudness of the park. ‘What-What makes you not want to trust anyone, ever? To…not trust me?’

 

Mycroft numbed himself, refusing to betray himself. He said nothing.

 

‘O-Okay’, Molly said, eventually. ‘T-That’s fine.’

 

Molly stood up and left. Mycroft did not follow her.

 

 **Answer:** he did not trust himself.

 

//

 

The next day, Molly felt tired. The fatigue had reached her bones, making her ache all over and feel older than she was. She trudged to work more than walked, and she found herself wishing for the day to end, now.

 

There was a sense of closure that Molly felt now. She felt she could move on from what happened, and maybe be happier. Talking to Mycroft made her realise how impossible he was. She finally understood that someone like him would never be suited to someone like her. The thought made her heart throb painfully, but she knew it would get better with time.

 

It had to.

 

‘Morning, Laura’, Molly said, with a cheerfulness she didn’t feel. She was about to walk past the reception when Laura called after her.

 

‘Wait, Molly!’, Laura said. ‘You have a package. It was weird, because it came really early this morning, before I got here.’

 

‘W-What?’, Molly said, confused. ‘I-I didn’t order anything for the lab.’

 

‘I dunno’, Laura said, shrugging. ‘Maybe it’s from your mysterious guy?’

 

Molly tried to smile at Laura’s name for Mycroft and his many flowers.

 

‘I don’t think so’, Molly said, sadly. ‘I guess- Let me see.’

 

Laura took her to the back room where the packages were arranged into compartments, pointing her to the right one.

 

‘There you go’, Laura said, pointing to it. ‘Let me know if it’s from lover boy!’

 

‘Laura!’, Molly protested, picking up the rather large, solid box. It fit early into her hands, but was rather large in length. She turned it over to see the sender address. ‘I really don’t-‘

 

Molly froze, reading the sender address on the back. As she stopped talking and moving, Molly thought she could feel a vibrating that was definitely not coming from here, but from the box.

 

‘L-Laura’, Molly said, trying to seem calm. ‘Can y-you call my lab assistant please?’

 

Laura looked confused. ‘Why? I’m sure he’s-‘

 

‘P-Please!’, Molly nearly yelled, her voice squeaking. ‘Call Lars, now!’

 

Laura opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it, and ran to do what Molly said.

 

Molly felt herself shake, and tears started falling down her face as the name in the address blurred.

_Sender: Jim Moriarty_

_221B Baker’s Street_

_Westminster_

_London_ _._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! Okay, I have a few things to say at this point, so bear with me. First of all: don’t kill me for what you just read. I did mention there would be a cliff-hanger! Second of all: I’m very worried that some readers think I plan to twist this story so that Mycroft and Molly aren’t involved romantically- please understand, this is, above all, a MOLLCROFT story in every sense, and there will be some proper romance. I’m not that cruel. The reason for the slow burn is that I feel, as a couple, Molly and Mycroft are as opposite as you can get in the way they portray themselves, so it doesn’t make sense to me to just write ‘Molly looked at Mycroft and BOOM! They fell in love, had sex and lived happily ever after.’ That’s just my opinion, though. But Mycroft is becoming more difficult to keep in character with each chapter, and I want it to be believable that he is interested in Molly so….that’s why this story is the way it is. Saying that, things are moving quickly now, and remember- we have nine chapters left and ANYTHING can happen!
> 
> Anyways, I’ll stop now. 
> 
> If you have any questions, prompts etc, please follow me on tumblr: http://bloglavictoire.tumblr.com/


	12. You Can't Have Peace Without A War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the worst happens, it's hard to pretend you don't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. 
> 
>  
> 
> Author's Notes: *gasps* What is this? An update? Two days after the last one? Yes, the plotbunny was particularly persistent this week! I want to thank everyone who has encouraged me about this story- you guys are brilliant and have helped so much!  
> Only a few notes this time:  
> \- This bomb idea: I got the idea from a James Patterson book, although I don’t know which one. Probably one of the Alex Cross ones. I have no idea if a pressure bomb exists. The idea is once you pick it up, you can’t drop it and must apply a certain amount of pressure to it to stop it going off. That’s all I know.  
> \- I want to say sorry now, before you’ve read this. I swear, I’m not trying to give anyone a heart attack.  
> \- Saying that, I have a feeling this chapter will be well loved. Just sayin’.  
> This chapter, as always was beta’d by Adalind, who is brilliant, fantastic, amazing and everything else in between.  
> Also, a massive thank you to WinterKoala, who made the lovely book cover for this story (See below).
> 
> Finally, this chapter was named after the lyrics of ‘Power and Control’ by Marina and the Diamonds. After Florence and The Machine, this woman is my favourite singer ever.
> 
>  

When Mycroft had first met Anthea, she was eighteen and a disgrace.

 

Mycroft had been in his late twenties when he had first started working with Anthea’s father, a European ambassador, much loved by his people and country. Mycroft had admired him greatly, aspired to understand his principles and to apply his methods to his own success. At the time, Mycroft had not yet become....worn with his power, damaged; he did not yet have blood on his hands, such that would never be wiped off. He still held great ideals for England, a truly patriotic civil servant who wanted to do good for his country. Even now, he still did, but now he knew that not all good things could be achieved blind. He knew that if he wanted progress for the greater good, it would mean a step back in another aspect, one hidden step into the darkness.

 

A few years after Mycroft started working alongside the ambassador, scandals broke out, and matters became very grim with a rapidity that even Mycroft found hard to believe. The rumours escalated, mounting onto front pages of international newspapers, and Mycroft had to accept that he could not bury his head in the sand any longer.

 

‘The man is a disgrace’, the Home Secretary said, referring to the European ambassador. ‘Spying against his own country, selling EU trade secrets to our enemies….’

 

The list of crimes grew, and the newspapers had been hushed. Mycroft learnt that this was the sign of the time when governmental matters had become serious, and incredibly sinister. The ambassador was in contempt for crimes too hideous to name, tarnishing the formidable reputation he had built up over the years.

 

 _Was it worth it,_ Mycroft had wondered _, to sell your country for your own gain?_

‘England can no longer be associated with the man’, the Home Secretary said, with authority. ‘I trust you will do the right thing, Mycroft.’

 

Mycroft had agreed immediately, his mind still buzzing with the implications.

 

_I read people, I deduce facts about them before they know it themselves. How did I miss such an obvious trickery?_

He felt ridiculous. Everyone around him chattered about the deception, what it must be like for his family, but Mycroft felt deceived on a more personal level. He should’ve seen, he should have deduced. He knew then that his admiration had overcome him, and allowed him to miss essential clues of the man’s personality.

 

 **Read** : The ambassador was sadistic, a sociopath on a diagnostic scale. He had used his position for power, for money, for greed. While power was what Mycroft had always craved, he had never wanted it for any other reason than to be feared, admired. The ambassador could not say the same.

 

Mycroft would not make the same mistake again.

 

He flew to Europe, located the ambassador to where he had run and hidden with his family, a small hovel of a home on the outskirts of a small village where they would not have lasted long in any circumstances. Mycroft exposed him, read him his sentence- he was to disappear a disgraced and belittled man. He would never be heard from again. His family would be put under protection, given new identities. They would always be watched, never truly forgotten or forgiven.

 

As Mycroft had walked away from the disastrous situation, he felt a tug at his arm, weak in touch but fiery strong in pull. He turned around to see a small, slight girl, her hair in a scraggly bun, her skin pale and her eyes sunken.

 

 **Read:** Young, but older than her current appearance allowed her to look, suggesting late adolescence. Her skin was paler than it was intended to be, indicating malnutrition, perhaps self-imposed in contempt of her current situation. Family of the ambassador, close family. Most likely his daughter. **Plan of action:** irrelevant. This girl was not worth his time.

 

‘Yes?’, Mycroft said, keeping his face blank, but sculpted his voice to show condescendence, annoyance. He would portray an image of being above such affairs because now Mycroft knew- he would never allow himself to fall into such a predicament. This was his warning to himself, showing him what would happen should he ever stray. He never planned to, and now he never would.

 

  _Corruption never led to success that was worth having._

‘How could you?’, the girl said, her hand quivering on Mycroft’s arm. ‘That’s my father! He hasn’t done anything wrong!’

 

Mycroft shrugged her hand off him careless, and watched the girl sway backwards with the force.

 

‘I’m afraid you’ll find that he has’, Mycroft said. ‘While it may be hard to believe, parents are not above bad deeds. Your father is a fraud, and he will now face the consequences’.

 

‘How dare you’, the girl said, her voice dark with anger, her eyes blazing. Mycroft regarded the girl, raising his eyebrow. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what my father is and isn’t.’

 

Mycroft paused for a moment, wondering what it was that was suddenly piquing his interest in this girl. She seemed small and weak, yet Mycroft could see a core of strength in the way she held herself.

 

 _She’s a solider,_ Mycroft thought. _She knows what her father does, and she had shouldered this knowledge for a long time. Tried damage control and failed._

‘Very well’, Mycroft said, not betraying his surprise. ‘If ignorance is what you desire, then on your head be it. Now, please allow me to leave, I have more important matters to deal with.’

 

The girl looked at him incredulously.

 

‘You think you’re so big and powerful’, the girl breathed. ‘You think we’re beneath you, you think that me and my family will just keep _quiet and die_ while you walk on. Well, I won’t.’

 

She broadened her shoulders, trying to pull herself to face him properly.

‘You’re the most horrible man I’ve ever met’, she said, firmly. ‘And one day you’ll know what it’s like to lose someone you care about.’

 

‘I’m afraid that’s where you are wrong’, Mycroft said, angry simmering. ‘You’ll find that I am at my position because I am in possession of something you are not- intelligence.’

 

The girl looked like she would yell at him, but Mycroft continued.

 

‘Caring is not an advantage’, Mycroft said, his voice feigning calm. ‘Do not take me for a fool; I do not care about your father. Nor do I care about what happens to his family’.

 

His words stung them both, Mycroft knew, the tension around them deepening the wound. He could see the pain in the girl’s eyes.

 

‘I absent myself from emotions, a necessary action in my occupation’, Mycroft said. ‘It is surprisingly easy to do so. I suggest you learn to do the same if you don’t want to….stay quiet and die.’

 

Mycroft turned away from the girl.

 

‘Protection services will provide you with a new identity. You will be extradited to England and watched’, Mycroft said, with a tone of finality. ‘I hope you choose to make the most of it.’

 

With that, Mycroft left without turning to look at the girl again. He knew he would never see her again. He did not care.

 

But 3 years later, Mycroft was wearier of his occupation, had learnt the damage it brought along with it. While he was not corrupt, he was a true politician now, the embodiment of the British government, and that brought a multitude of sins with it.

 

He now needed someone to help him manage his sins, to dissect them for him, turn them into bite size, manageable pieces. He began to interview assistants.

Fifty-two interviews later, Mycroft found himself looking at a woman with pale olive skin and smoothed brown hair in an elegant bun.

 

‘I believe we have met before’, the woman said, smirking slightly, her back straight

and legs crossed.

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked at her application. Her forename was missing from the application, replaced with only an ‘A’ in the space.

 

‘I believe we have’, Mycroft said. ‘Your new name is….A?’

 

His tone was questioning, but not ridiculing, not surprised.

 

‘Alice, Annabelle, Alicia, Alesha…’, A said. ‘Whatever I want it to be. Is that a problem?’

 

Somewhere along the line, the ambassador’s daughter had turned into a woman in her own right. Mycroft had to admit he was impressed.

 

‘What makes you think I would employ you?’, Mycroft said. ‘Your background suggests you would be a bad investment for me. You made your despise of me quite obvious.’

 

‘My proposed role is one of secrecy and protection’, A said. ‘I think we both know I am more than capable of keeping secrets. As for protection…I can learn.’

 

‘How do I know you would not try to compromise me?’, Mycroft said, bluntly. ‘I am, at least partially responsible for what became of your father.’

 

A looked at him, something shutting down on her face.

 

‘Caring is not an advantage’, she said. Her voice was monotonous, as though she had repeated the words many times. ‘I have learnt to absent myself from my emotions.’

 

Then she sat up straighter, and Mycroft watched as she built a barrier around herself.

 

‘Plus’, A said. ‘You owe me for all of that. The least you could do is give me a job.’

 

 **Read:** The little girl has grown, flown the nest. She was ready to learn, ready to see that caring really was a disadvantage. Mycroft could take her on as a protégé, teach her all his techniques; he knew he would never have children to pass his knowledge on to and it was imperative for England that his skills outlive him.

 

A became Anthea, became his assistant. However, sometimes Mycroft would look up and see her staring at him, and he knew she had never forgiven him for what he had done.

 

They would betray each other if it meant to save themselves. It was an unwritten agreement between them, one that would survive for twelve years untouched.

 

Then Anthea became Molly’s friend, and Mycroft’s mind turned back, his memory, to the little malnourished girl with the scraggly bun.

 

_‘You’re the most horrible man I’ve ever met’, she had said. ‘And one day you’ll know what it’s like to lose someone you care about.’_

 

//

 

Molly’s face was covered in tears, soaking her neck, running into her shirt. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her throat, her mouth, and she couldn’t breathe anymore, she couldn’t breathe.

 

Lars appeared in front of her, his face calm and stony.

 

‘I have called Mr Holmes’, he said, his face blank. He looked at Molly’s face. ‘The package contains a pressure bomb. Do not let go and it will not explode. You will be fine, Dr Hooper.’

 

Molly wanted to laugh at his callousness, the noise bubbling in her throat with her tears.

_Is this how Mycroft trains his people to act?_

 

‘I don’t- I don’t want him here’, Molly said, trying to stop her tears. ‘Please just f-find someone that can _stop this_ -‘

 

The storage room she was in had become stifling, and Molly wasn’t sure she wasn’t going to faint. The outlines of her vision had begun to darken as her breathing shallowed, and she struggled to keep upright. She feared she would never be able to hold onto the package for long enough for help to come.

 

‘J-just’, Molly said, looking at the address on the package. ‘Please just get everyone out of here.’

 

Outside the room Molly could hear yelling, sounds of indignation, of people that didn’t know what was happening. She knew Laura would be worried, concerned about her. But Molly knew she would be fine, everyone would be fine.

 

_Was this how she would die?_

 

Molly wasn’t ready to die; this couldn’t be it- it couldn’t be. She wasn’t done, she hadn’t achieved anything with her life. She had so many dreams of things she would do, places she had to see, people she would- would love. Her thoughts turned to Mycroft, and she didn’t try to prevent it. If she was going to die, she would not deny herself the little good that had been in it. Even though Mycroft had been cruel, cold and uncaring, Molly knew he had seen her, had been the first to notice her. She would not forget that.

 

‘Call Myc-Mr Holmes’, Molly demanded, looking pointedly at Lars through her tears. ‘Tell him he-he shouldn’t come. He doesn’t need to.’

 

‘I’m afraid you are too late’, said a voice from the doorway. Molly’s face shot away from Lars to the door. Mycroft was looking her up and down and Molly knew she looked pathetic.

 

‘I’m already here’, Mycroft said, his voice calculated but soft.

 

//

 

After Jim from IT had turned out to be Jim Moriarty, Molly found out that the man had strapped John to a jacket of semtex, and she felt horrified at how badly she had judged Jim. She felt disgusted in herself, and cried for John and what he must have gone through.

 

‘It wasn’t too bad’, John said one day much later, and Molly stared at him. ‘I mean- it was, of course, but…I don’t remember a lot about it.’

 

They were at the fateful Christmas party, the one where she had tried to impress Sherlock. She sat on a chair with John, beers in both of their hands.

 

‘But-‘, Molly said. ‘It must have been horrible. You could’ve died!’

 

‘Yeah’, John confirmed. His eyes turned to Sherlock, who was animatedly insulting Lestrade. ‘But you sort of forget about all the little things when something like that happens. Sherlock, er, Sherlock being there helped a lot.’

 

Molly had just blinked at John, and wished she had someone she loved that much.

 

//

 

Mycroft stood at the doorway of the storage room, and assessed the situation.

 

 **Read:** Molly was shaking, her hands pressed hard to the package, indicating she was scared- no, terrified. Her face was turned away from him, suggesting she did not expect him to be there, did not want him to be there. The stance of her shoulders was defensive, moving her body away from Lars and himself- she felt alone, but did not wish to be. **Plan of action:** Incomputable. Mycroft’s mind was blank.

 

Mycroft’s mind was _never_ blank. But he found he could not interpret this situation in either a negative or positive light, in a way that could help Molly’s current circumstances. All they could do was wait for bomb disposal, whom Lars had already called. Anthea was stationed outside to keep civilians a safe distance away and to guide bomb disposal once they arrived. She had done so with gritted teeth ( **read:** worried about Molly. Threats brought the worst out in everyone).

 

Mycroft found he could not read himself. Anthea’s words from so many years ago echoed in his mind, and he could not deny they applied. His right hand had an almost unnoticeable tremor, his arms straightened at his sides in a military pose. His face felt clammy and ashen; he knew what this meant.

 

 **Read:** he had made a horrendous mistake. The most terrible mistake, the one he had painstakingly prevented for decades. **Plan of action:** _Incomputable_. His life’s work had been to avoid this very day. He was well and truly compromised.

 

‘M-Mycroft’, Molly said, her voice a whisper of what it had been the day before, when she had slapped him, when she had been so incessant and alive.

_How much longer would she be alive?_

 

Mycroft tore the thought out of his mind, ripped it of his heart with a jagged sword- it was apparent both were involved in this equation. Mycroft stared at Molly, and her face became broken, fresh tears falling down the small expanse that was her face.

 

 **Read:** Now was not a time for….for _proprieties._

‘Lars’, Mycroft said, stepping closer to Molly, looming over her. ‘Please go outside and call bomb disposal once more and insist on the urgency. Do mention who you work for.’

 

‘Yes, sir’, Lars said automatically, looking at Mycroft and Molly. ‘Sir, I think it would be best for your safety if you went outside.’

 

Mycroft kept looking at Molly, who had turned away from him again. Her arms were shaking from the strain of holding onto the package.

 

 **Read:** Her arms were hurting from the elevated angle they were in. Mycroft estimated, without help, Molly would drop the package in another 5.2 minutes. **Plan of action:** Positive reinforcement.

 

‘Lars, I will not repeat myself’, Mycroft said again. ‘Go outside and refrain from telling me what to do.’

 

‘But sir’, Lars said. ‘It is imperative that you remain in safety-‘

 

‘We will both be safe!’, Mycroft barked, loudly. Molly flinched, and Mycroft calmed himself. ‘Listen to my instructions and do as I say.’

 

Lars nodded, and swiftly walked out of the room. Mycroft looked at Molly.

 

 **Read:** She was terrified.

 

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, keeping his voice calm. ‘Look at me’.

 

Molly continued to look at the vibrating box in her hands, her eyes flickering constantly over the sender address. Mycroft tried to ignore the clicking within the box, which moved in time with his heartbeat. Without waiting for another breath, without waiting for his brain to formulate a strategy, Mycroft reached up and cupped Molly’s face, his large hands skimming across her cheek.

 

Molly jerked, looking up at him with large, wide eyes filled with weariness and fear, her trance finally broken. Mycroft removed his hand, blinking at his own foolishness and the audacity of the situation.

 

‘Y-You’, Molly said, her voice croaking. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

 

Mycroft kept his face blank.

 

‘As you are aware, Molly’, Mycroft said, his eyes dark. ‘There is not anywhere I can not be.’

 

Molly gulped, and nodded, looking at the box again.

 

‘I-I’m going to drop it’, Molly whispered. ‘My arms hurt, I can’t…’

 

Molly sobbed, her shoulders shaking.

 

‘You are doing fine’, Mycroft said, firmly, standing directly in front of Molly, his arms at his sides. ‘Bomb disposal will be here in approximately 7.5 minutes-‘

 

‘Y-You don’t understand!’, Molly said. ‘What’s the point? S-Someone wants me dead! They’ll just keep doing this until I die! Look who the package is from- I’ll….I’ll never make it.’

 

Mycroft stared at Molly, and then looked down at her hands.

 

_Sender address: Jim Moriarty_

_221B Baker Street_

_Westminister_

_London_

**Read:** This did not make sense. This was unprecedented.

 

Molly was looking at him again, her eyes blinking back tears. Mycroft’s mind buzzed and raced with scenarios, possibilities, anything that made sense of that name and that address.

 

_It’s not Moriarty._

 

‘It’s not Moriarty’, Mycroft said, eventually. ‘He is dead. We both saw the body.’

 

‘Who-Who else can it be?’, Molly said, her voice shrill. ‘I thought- I thought he was dead, but who else wants me dead this much? Who have I ever hurt?’

 

Mycroft felt his blank expression break, and he ran a hand through his hair, letting his shoulders fall.

 

‘You have done nothing wrong’, Mycroft confirmed. He wasn’t looking at Molly, but he could feel her stare burning the back of his neck. ‘I’m afraid this is my fault. Once again.’

 

Molly coughed, making Mycroft turn to look at her.

 

‘Everything is always y-your fault’, Molly said, choking on her tears. ‘Sherlock is your fault. I’m your fault. Why does everyone h-have to be your r-responsibility?’

 

Mycroft stared at her.

 

 **Read:** Molly was scared, however, she was also strong. Stronger than Mycroft had estimated. So many years in government, so many years of seamless deductions, and yet he had made an elementary mistake. _A human_ mistake.

 

‘I apologise if I made it seem so’, Mycroft said. ‘But I stand by my original sentence- you have done nothing wrong’.

 

Molly sniffed, looking up at Mycroft.

 

‘I’m afraid…’, Mycroft trailed off, feeling weary. ‘I’m afraid this is why you and I are different. You are essentially a good person surrounded by a milieu of bad influences.’

 

‘W-Why are you telling me this?’, Molly said, her tears stopping, the closeted tears left in the corner of her eyes enlarging them, making them look impossibly dark and brown. Mycroft looked at the package between her shaky hands, and realised Molly was seconds away from dropping it.

 

‘Because if we are both going to die, we might as well leave on a note of honesty’, Mycroft said, surprising himself. His mind was betraying him, no longer letting him in on his own actions until he carried them out.

 

Molly looked confused. ‘What? You can go-‘

 

Mycroft’s eyes flickered over Molly’s one more time, watching as they showed her confusion, sadness and then finally her realisation of what he would do.

 

Swiftly, before Molly could speak again, Mycroft moved forward, putting his hands on hers, covering the box, enveloping her arms and bringing the box against his ribcage.

 

‘I disagree’, Mycroft said, his voice rough. ‘This is my fault. And I shall repeat myself once again: I am not going _anywhere_ ’.

 

Molly breathed in hard. Mycroft couldn’t help but think about the warmth of her hands under his, the electric ticking of the box being absorbed into their fingers.

 

//

 

Molly breathed, her fingers numb under Mycroft’s, the ice-cold tingling of her fingertips making her shiver. She told herself it was because of the bomb, because her body was beginning to revolt under the intense stress of what was happening. But the warmth of Mycroft’s body so close to her was closing in on the ice-cold of her fingers and her heart, confusing her, paralysing her. She found she could not think about anything other than that Mycroft was _there,_ that she wasn’t _alone._

 

The cruellest man she knew, the most manipulative and the one that had made her feel useless was doing the most….the most insane thing that Molly could think of, cradling a bomb to his ribcage as though he thought he could shield her from it. The weight of the package lessened in her arms, making it more manageable, and her arms didn’t ache anymore.

 

‘I-If’, Molly said, her heart beating desperately hard, the smell of Mycroft’s cologne heightened in her alert state. ‘If this bomb….thing…goes off, we’re both going to die.’

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow at her, looking down at her from above.

 

‘That is obvious, Molly’, Mycroft said, dryly. ‘I am not afraid of dying.’

 

A silence filled between them, the ticking and vibrating of the box becoming deafening in the room.

 

‘I d-don’t want to die’, Molly admitted. ‘I just, I haven’t done anything with my life. I’ve always done what everyone else wanted me to do. I’ve never- I’ve never been to Thailand. I’ve never had pad thai. I’ve never got married, I…’

 

Her voice trailed off, and Molly tried not to let her despair show. Out of all the things she would never do, the thing would most regret is not having anyone that would miss her; Molly knew Lydia would miss her for a while, but she was family, a sister that she was no longer as close to as before. Lydia would cope. What Molly wanted, really wanted, was someone that would really miss her, feel it everyday. It was selfish, Molly knew, but she didn’t care. In the end of the day, she didn’t matter, and it hurt.

 

‘I have never tried pad thai either’, Mycroft said oddly, bringing Molly out of her thoughts. ‘You shall be fine, Molly. I have no doubt we will both survive this.’

‘I don’t-‘, Molly said, tears poring down her face. ‘Why are you doing this? You could go now, you could just leave- you don’t even care.’

 

_You don’t even care._

The words clung to Molly’s skin, the cold wash of it rubbing over them. Molly felt Mycroft’s fingers move slightly on hers, and she immediately regretted saying it. She looked away, trying not to be sorry, not with someone who she knew didn’t care, and tried not to feel.

 

‘You are correct’, Mycroft said, eventually. His eyes were somehow duller than before, Molly noted, and for some reason this scared her. ‘I do not care. Caring is an over-hyped emotion that is capable of killing us all.’

 

Molly coughed as she held back tears. She felt like nodding, because, at the moment, those words could not be more true.

 

‘If you don’t care’, Molly said, her voice more of a whisper. ‘Then l-leave.’

 

One heartbeat, two heartbeats later, and neither of them had spoken.

 

‘Yesterday,’ Mycroft said, finally. ‘You asked me what the worst thing is that I’ve done.’

 

Molly’s eyes flickered upwards. Mycroft carried on, his eyes fixed on hers, looking determined, the dullness disappeared.

 

‘I have killed people’, Mycroft said, bluntly, honestly. ‘I have had people killed. I have made contracts that were dishonest, I have lied, I have blackmailed- all in the name of queen and country. I do not regret any of them. England is what I am. I am England.’

 

A shiver ran down Molly’s spine.

 

‘But the worst thing I’ve ever done is let Sherlock fall to his death with him thinking he couldn’t ask me for my aid’, Mycroft said, his face jerking to look behind Molly rather than at her. Molly’s heart pulsed in her throat at his words, and she felt as though her chest would break in two with the weight of the organ.

 

‘I am….I am very fortunate he survived’, Mycroft said. ‘And I am more than indebted to you for doing what I should have done. Therefore, this is my redemption. This is what I should have done a long time ago.’

 

Mycroft moved his hands carefully, so that they were on the box themselves and not on Molly’s hands. A cold ran over her hands as Mycroft grabbed the box more forcefully.

 

‘Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said, with gritted teeth. ‘Let go of the package. The pressure ratio between our hands now should mean yours are no longer needed.’

 

‘What-‘, Molly said, gaping at him. ‘N-No! You can’t just-‘

 

‘Molly, just this once’, Mycroft said, his glare angry. ‘Listen to me, and just go. Bomb disposal will be here shortly. I shall be fine.’

 

Molly couldn’t believe what Mycroft was doing. Still holding onto her side of the package, Molly looked at him properly.

 

‘I am not going anywhere’, Molly said, repeating Mycroft’s earlier words. ‘I-I don’t need saving. I am not a damsel in distress and I won’t let you do this. I won’t!’

 

They both glared at each other, Molly’s heart racing as they internally fought each other.

 

‘This is not Moriarty’, Mycroft said. ‘I am certain of it. You have nothing to fear in the event of my death. Anthea will take care of whoever is responsible for this-‘

 

‘Shut up!’, Molly yelled, struggling to keep pressure on the box. ‘Shut up! I don’t c-care who it is. But-But you are too important to die because of something as stupid as this.’

 

Mycroft stared at her.

 

‘I would hardly call a bomb stupid, Molly’, Mycroft said. ‘And the Queen is aware of what events should take place should my death occur.’

 

 Molly stared at him incredulously.

 

_He is the most impossible-_

 

Without thinking, Molly removed one hand from the box, Mycroft’s hand automatically counteracting the lack of pressure with the press of his own hands. His eyes widened as Molly rose to her toes and tugged at his shirt to pull him down. She looked into his eyes and saw Mycroft’s eyes flicker to her lips. Something- hope- blossomed in Molly’s chest, and suddenly what was happening, where they were didn’t matter. She leaned in and kissed him hard, melding their lips together. She closed her eyes to take in the sensation as long as it lasted, Mycroft’s lips seeming softer than she imagined, but firm around hers.

 

Mycroft stayed frozen, and Molly made to move away from him, only to find he was kissing her back, hard and roughly.

 

//

 

Three minutes later, bomb disposal burst into the room, followed by Anthea.

 

Mycroft broke away from Molly, his mind pounding with the conflict of what had happened. He could not be sure why he allowed himself to kiss Molly, other than the height of the tension in the room, the pure emotions Molly was radiating.

 

_He was not a sentimental man._

 

He would not be _affected._

Molly was looking at him, he knew, but Mycroft found he could not help but look back. Molly’s face was blushing, her lips bruised from their….kiss. Her eyes sought his, so full of hope.

 

_I am not a sentimental man._

 

Mycroft watched as Molly’s eyes dulled, and suddenly looked devastated, her shoulders falling. He looked away from her, nodding at the men that were defusing the bomb in their hands, and then they were free, free to let go.

 

Anthea came up to them, and hugged Molly, whose arms were hanging at her sides, her face downcast.

 

‘What happened?’, Anthea said, her voice quietly frantic. She looked at them both, and her face looked confused. ‘Mycroft…?’

 

Mycroft looked at Molly.

 

‘Molly-‘, he began. Molly quickly shook her head, pushing away from Anthea.

 

‘I have- I have to go’, Molly said, her face still looking down. ‘It’s fine.’

 

‘Molly-‘, Anthea said, still confused, and Molly walked away from them both, her steps formed to get away from them as quickly as possible. Anthea looked at him.

 

‘What did you do?’, Anthea said, her voice demanding. Mycroft thought of the kiss, the warmth of Molly’s lips, her cheeks grazing his, and found that his mind had shut down.

 

_What did you do?_

//

 

An hour later, Mycroft’s mind was drowning him, and the whisky in his hand was only making it worse. He felt bedraggled and outraged at himself, his conflicting thoughts creating bloodshed in his head.

 

There was a knock on his front door. Mycroft waited for a minute, then walked to open it.

 

When he opened the door, Anthea walked though immediately, a look of worry on her face.

 

 **Read:** Personal concern, the tremor of her lip indicating just so. Her hair is no longer coiffed, stray hairs falling over her face- suggesting she ran a hand through it recently; she is tired, bewildered by something. Scared.

 

_How much worse can this day become?_

 

‘Molly?’, Mycroft said, suddenly feeling alert.

 

‘Sir’, Anthea croaked. ‘There is an intruder in Molly’s flat. She arrived there forty minutes ago.’

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now folks! Okay, I have a bit of a problem now. One of the reasons I’ve been able to update fast recently is because I’ve had the last four days off work and uni- this is not true of next week. I have no idea how busy I’ll be, but I’ll try to update the next chapter within the next week- so don’t expect the Chapter 13 tomorrow or something.  
> Having said that, please do comment on this chapter- I always love to hear what you think, and they do seriously help inspire the plotbunny and make me update faster!  
> Also, please check out the podfic of this story- WinterKoala has been amazing AGAIN, and begun to make an audio book of this monster of a story. The link is at the bottom of this page.
> 
> Finally, if you have questions about this story, prompts etc, please follow me on tumblr: http://bloglavictoire.tumblr.com/


	13. You'll Always Come Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard when you know that everything you believe in might just backfire on you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. 
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello again! It’s been a week, but feels so much longer! Okay, I don’t have much time, because I’m trying to post this before I go met my friends and go to watch CAPTAIN AMERICA (yay!) and eat sushi, so I have to be quick! I have to warn you- this chapter didn’t turn out how I wanted it to, and became a massive character study of Mycroft and basically acts as a set up for the next chapter….so don’t hate me. But no cliffie on this one, not really!  
> Okay, the usual:  
> This chapter was beta’d by the bestest, loveliest beta in the world- Adalind, who was brilliant enough to beta this at 4am in the morning, because I’m a crazy fusspot and she just puts up with it.  
> As usual, this chapter was named after the lyrics of a song- ‘Victims of love’, by Good Charlotte.
> 
> Er….can’t think of anything else for now- I’ll edit the A/N later if I have to. On with the chapter!
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

When Mycroft was seven years old, Sherlock was born. To this day, Mycroft wasn’t sure if his brother’s birth had turned his life for the better, or for the worse. What was for certain, however, was that Mycroft’s life had taken a turn and he had changed, his heart expanding to accommodate a space that would always be reserved for his little brother.  It was the danger of being the older sibling, Mycroft knew, the want to protect the tiny human being in a way that a mother and father could not, the need for his little brother to grow up to understand and support him in the trials of living in a world of people that were not like him.

 

Of course, as nature would have it, Sherlock turned out to be very different from his older brother, unruly and rebellious in a way Mycroft had not been. While Mycroft had grown to become quietly calculating, scheming, Sherlock developed a love for attention and drama, a need for puzzles to be provided for him rather than creating them himself, as Mycroft did.

 

Mycroft now knew how naïve he must have been to believe that Sherlock would ever consider him as anything other than a hindrance. Mycroft wasn’t needed in Sherlock’s life. Mycroft wasn’t _wanted_ in Sherlock’s life. Yet Mycroft found that he could not leave Sherlock to fend for himself in the world where people were not like either of them. An unpolished version of Mycroft, Sherlock would not survive long without him. The drugs later attested for this, and Sherlock no longer physically protested Mycroft’s presence.

 

But before Mycroft was a hindrance, before he was unwanted, unneeded ( **read:** always needed, never wanted), Mycroft had been a big brother to a tiny human being with more potential that Mycroft, especially at the age of seven, could ever comprehend. This little person, Mycroft had thought, could be _like me._

When Sherlock was few days old, the doctors realised that there was something significantly wrong with his baby brother. His mother had begun crying, his father holding her tight. _The baby has a ventricular septum defect,_ Mycroft heard above his mother’s wails, _a hole in the bottom of his heart._

 

Mycroft imagined tiny little black spots on Sherlock’s miniscule heart, and he touches his baby brothers hand, feeling the papery thin skin, until they took him away. Mycroft calculated by his mother’s cries, his head buzzing, that he may never see his brother again. There would be no more potential, and no one would ever be like Mycroft ever again.

 

But then the doctor came back, smiling down at Mycroft, and told him his baby brother was fine, that his brother was _alive._ Mycroft’s own heart leapt and he thought about the implications. _Sherlock_ , he thought. _Sherlock._ A human like himself. Mycroft would no longer be alone.

 

Mycroft crept past his parents, past the doctors and nurses, and located the little room of incubators, full of whimpering babies. Mycroft found Sherlock easily, feeling his own blood pumping through his brother, through little Sherlock’s heart.

 

Mycroft found a stool, stood on it to reach through the arm-hole in Sherlock’s incubator. Sherlock held onto his older brother’s fingers, and Mycroft felt joy, proper, unadulterated joy for the first time in his young life.

 

Decades later, Mycroft’s memories swarmed, tapping incessantly at this particular image. Mycroft imagined the hole in Sherlock’s heart, the tiny black spots, and he wondered exactly what kind of tissue was supposed to have been in the place of those holes, what those gaps might have meant.

 

_Perhaps_ , Mycroft thought once, _those holes were like a physical manifestation of  the feelings that Sherlock should have had for him. The missing part of that would have meant that Sherlock cared for his brother._

 

When Mycroft was ten years old  he told Sherlock for the first time that love was a chemical defect, that caring was a disadvantage.

 

_Naivety_ , Mycroft thought years later. Thirty years later, Mycroft would betray his own teachings.

 

//

 

Molly wiped away her tears as she struggled with her keys, the blurriness of her vision stalling her actions for longer than she wanted. All she wanted, right now, was a hot shower and her warm bed, so that she could forget everything that had happened that day, even if it would be only for the night. A sob escaped her mouth as the hurt became too much to bear.

 

It had been perfect. Molly wasn’t going to lie to herself, because all she seemed to do these days was lie to everyone else. For a blink of a second, in the hours of hell of thinking she was going to die, she had done the most stupid thing she had thought of, and kissed Mycroft, and it had been perfect. In the moment, it hadn’t mattered that the lapse in concentration could mean they could be blown up, or that there was someone out there that wanted her very, very dead, or that she was alone- because she wasn’t alone, she wasn’t, not in that second. Then Mycroft had responded, and she allowed herself to hope. Seeing Mycroft close up back into his shell, under the guard he hadn’t used around Molly since the beginning of their….friendship, companionship, meeting, whatever it was, was hard for Molly to handle. He didn’t care about her like she did about him, Molly knew, and she would accept that. She would, because she had to.

 

Perhaps that was the stupidest thing she had done, Molly thought. Hope was…a ridiculous thing to have, if you know that disappointment was the only outcome all along.

 

Finally, the door unlocked, and Molly wiped her face with her cardigan sleeve, the wetness absorbing through the material to soak the skin of her wrist. She let herself in, closing the door behind her and locking it, then tossing the keys onto the floor. She breathed deeply into the darkness of her living room, and then stopped for a second, her breath hitching. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, a ringing filling her ears.

 

_There was someone else in the room._

‘He-Hello?’, Molly said, hesitantly, promptly slapping herself mentally for speaking out loud. ‘Is anybody there?’

 

No one spoke or moved, no sound other than Molly’s own laboured breathing. Molly breathed deeply again, and couldn’t shake the feeling of paranoia that was consuming her. She had every right to be paranoid, but she knew it was a bit much to expect to be attacked twice in one day. But it was true, someone out there hated her enough to want her dead and Molly- she couldn’t _stand_ the idea of it. Cold sweat ran down her back, and all Molly could think about now was that she wasn’t ready to die, not now, not when she would die alone, not while she knew Mycroft didn’t care about her at all.  Her hand hovered over the light switch.

Molly closed her eyes, opened them, and then switched on the lights. Blinking into the brightness of the light, Molly looked ahead into her living room and nearly screamed when she saw something very human on her sofa. Molly blinked again, tensing up, and looked more carefully from the spot near her door where she was rooted, and gasped again.

 

‘Sherlock!’, Molly nearly screamed, before putting a hand on her mouth and checking the door was closed. ‘Sherlock?’

 

Molly moved closer to her sofa, and she was right- Sherlock was lying on his front, his hair now blond and curly. Molly hesitated and then crouched down to his level, and pushed his shoulder, revealing his face. Sherlock had his eyes closed and wasn’t responding, and Molly nearly cried out in relief when she put her ear to his mouth and felt his breathing, the pulse beating under his wrist. He was alive, Molly knew, and tears began to fall down her face.

 

_Does it mean it is all over? Is Sherlock home for good?_

There was several things wrong with that, Molly decided, her happiness at having him home being replaced by fear and anger when she turned him over and looked at him properly. Molly gasped loudly, horrified.

 

Sherlock was covered in bruises. Purple and blue bruises on his face, and the parts of his neck and arms she could see.

_It wasn’t over._

Molly began to panic, looking around the room for anything that could help her. Some of the bruises had definitely been there for a while, and they were still inflamed, which meant they were probably infected. Sherlock had lost a lot of weight and his face seemed shrunken somehow, so he was also malnourished. Sherlock was unconscious for reasons Molly didn’t know, he was too heavy for her to move by herself, and she didn’t have any of the things she needed to treat him. He needed to go to hospital _now_.

 

_No one can know Sherlock is alive._

 

The panic increased, and Molly’s tears increased with her frustration; she never felt this _helpless_ , she didn’t.

 

Molly rushed to find her bag, and pulled out her phone. Just as she began to go through her contacts list, there was a loud thumping on her door, nearly breaking it down. Molly screamed and dropped her phone.

 

‘SPECIAL FORCES, OPEN THE DOOR!’, someone yelled on the other side, an authoritative male voice coming through to Molly’s side.

Molly widened her eyes, staring at her door as the incessant banging forced the door to vibrate loudly. Molly was shaking all over, and she looked at Sherlock unconscious on her sofa.

 

_No one can know._

 

‘Ma’am’, the man said, his voice firm and slightly threatening. ‘I recommend you open the door now. You will not be hurt’.

 

‘Who are you?’, Molly said. ‘I haven’t….I haven’t done anything!’

 

‘We were sent here by Mr Holmes’, the male yelled. ‘Ma’am, open the door or we will be forced to break it.’

 

‘What?’, Molly said, her voice faltering. She didn’t know why Mycroft had sent people, sent the _special police forces_ , but he couldn’t know Sherlock was here, not already, not when she hadn’t even called him yet.

 

‘Ma’am, you’re in danger’, the man said again, and suddenly Molly could hear police sirens coming from the street. ‘We have reason to believe there is someone in your home that may cause you harm.’

 

_Mycroft has surveillance outside my flat. He knows there is someone here, he just doesn’t know who._

 

The cold sweat running down Molly’s back began to boil, burning her. The ringing in her ears increased, and Molly could hear cars and yelling below her flat, a light shining through her window. Molly screamed again, the light scorching her eyes, and she looked frantically at Sherlock again.

Molly ran to her windows, and yanked the curtains closed. Rushing to her bedroom, she grabbed her duvet off her bed, pulling the heavy material into her living room. She draped it over Sherlock, the material just covering his long frame. In all this, Molly’s mind was buzzing a million miles per hour, and she thought about the- well, the sheer absurdity that her life was now.

 

The banging on her door became louder and harder, and Molly moved towards it.

 

‘Stop!’, she screamed, her voice shrill. ‘Stop it now! I’m opening it!’

 

The banging stopped, and Molly grabbed her keys from the floor with shaking hands, and she leaned against her door for a second.

 

Molly knew she wasn’t Anthea or Sherlock or even any one that knew what to do in such a situation- but she knew, she knew no one could know Sherlock was here. He needed help, needed it quickly, but if she let these people in, Mycroft’s people or not, they would know Sherlock was alive, and if there’s one thing Molly knew well, it was that not everyone could be trusted.

 

_I live in a world where not even the people under my employ are trusted._

Breathing deeply, Molly opened her door quickly, and threw herself onto the other side, closing the door behind her. Locking her door shut, Molly squeaked loudly at the number of people outside her flat. All dressed in black military wear and carrying guns, there were at least twenty people there, more than Molly anticipated and a lot more than she could hold off. The darkness of the corridor was lit up by torches, illuminating Molly’s face and making it hard for her to see.

 

‘Dr Hooper’, a man said, looking down at her, and Molly recognised him as the one that had spoken to her through her door. ‘Please move out of the way while we check your home.’

 

The man pushed Molly’s arm lightly, obviously expecting her to comply, and reached for the door. Molly squeaked again, and pushed back, throwing the man of his guard and causing him to fall slightly backwards.

 

No-No!’, Molly said, covering her face slightly at the bright light. ‘I need to speak to Mycroft first!’

 

More of them moved towards Molly, and she splayed her arms over her door.

 

‘NO!’, Molly screamed, her heart beating fast as she found herself looking down at least a dozen gun barrels. ‘I want to speak to Mycroft!’

 

‘The woman is hysterical’, Molly heard one of the men say. ‘Just move her!’

 

‘I am not hysterical!’, Molly shrieked, wishing she hadn’t dropped her phone before. ‘Just let me talk to Mycroft, and then you can go in!’

 

‘Just push her out of the way’, one of the men said.

 

_That’s it._

Without thinking about, without even realising that she had thought about it, Molly moved forward and kicked the nearest person as hard as she could on an area that wasn’t covered in Kevlar. Anger throbbed in her throat, in her brain, and her vision squared on the people in front of her, the people that saw her as an _obstacle,_ something that could just be pushed away and _forgotten_ , ignored. Someone screamed, and a dozen of the men came towards her as Molly pushed herself against her door.

 

‘No one is coming in ’, Molly said, her voice coming out roughly in her sudden anger. Adrenaline pumped in her veins, and her inner self was scared at her own behaviour. This wasn’t like her, she knew, but she will protect Sherlock, and Mycroft too, if she had to.  ‘Until I speak to Mycroft.’

 

//

 

Mycroft stood outside in the dark of the night, looking up at flights of wall leading to Molly’s flat, watching as the lights from the cars and helicopter floated around it. Umbrella closed, Mycroft bowed his head into the rain that was pouring around him, and tried to ignore the rapid beating of his heart. Molly’s face swarmed in front of him and his mind flickered to an image of Molly laying on the floor, dead, her face pale and unfeeling in a way it never was.

 

The thought agitated Mycroft in way that he shouldn’t have allowed. The secure wall he had spent an eternity building had been compromised well and truly, and in the current scenario Mycroft was not sure how to dampen the burn of a fear that he had never truly felt before.

 

Mycroft slowly looked towards Anthea, who was running the operation, bellowing loudly at the few officers that weren’t already upstairs with Molly. Mycroft marvelled at Anthea’s spirit, her ability to jump unprotected into the waters of emotions and the way in which she embraced them. She had taken to and accepted Molly almost straight away, her regard for her now….friend….unimpeded despite the fact that little was secure in the world that Anthea lived in, that Mycroft himself lived in.

 

_You are not a sentimental man._

 

He needed to think. He could not think.

 

‘Sir’, Anthea said, suddenly in front of him. ‘The team are saying that Molly is safe, and wants to talk to you, immediately.’

 

Mycroft stared at her. _Molly was alive._ Mycroft breathed in and out quickly and schooled his expression into his usual blank one.

‘Apparently she is putting up quite a resistance upstairs’, Anthea said, frowning at her phone in a strange way. ‘She won’t allow anyone in her flat.’

 

Mycroft’s mind brought up an image of Molly, small and slight as he knew she was, faced by several trained men and women, her expression stubborn and fearless. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Anthea smiled.

 

‘I know’, Anthea said, with a tone akin to a mother’s pride.

 

Mycroft’s thoughts raced as he picked up his phone, and dialled his main man on the team. He stared down at his ring, his wedding band that was not a wedding band, and felt his heart thud louder in the anticipation of hearing Molly’s voice. She was angry with him, Mycroft knew. Anger on her side was good for him, Mycroft thought, so that he could mend the cracks in his barrier, and learn to be the governmental official that he had been trained to be, the man that he had always been, and _will be._

_Caring is not an advantage._

‘Put me through to Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said calmly into the phone, as soon as his employee picked up. There was a rush of voices and air, and then Mycroft could hear a shuffling and squeaking that he knew belonged to Molly. His fingers warmed as he remembered her breath against them when he had seen her last, the fiery burn of her cheek.

 

‘Mycroft!’, Molly said, her voice a low whisper against the noise Mycroft could hear was near her. ‘Come upstairs. Please’.

 

Mycroft looked straight at Anthea, his face empty in her curious expression.

 

‘I can not’, Mycroft said, coolly. ‘I am glad you are safe, but I’m afraid there is someone in your flat that will harm you. Please allow my team to check your flat, and come downstairs.’

 

Molly squeaked loudly, indignantly.

 

‘Mycroft!’, Molly bellowed, before suddenly lowering her voice. ‘I’m not…I’m not in danger. There is, there isn’t anyone dangerous in my flat, but I need your help _now._ Please.’

 

The sheer desperation in Molly’s voice, the firmness and decisiveness that wasn’t usually there, alerted Mycroft to the strangeness of her behaviour.

 

**Read:** Molly was not in danger, at least a danger that she perceives for herself. No, the danger is on someone other than Molly, as the tone of her voice suggested. The tilt and pitch of her voice suggested urgency, also Molly’s stubbornness. Strong positive. The pace of the words per second had increased, meaning Molly was struggling. Most likely against holding his team away, which was confusing in itself. Think. Who would Molly trying to protect? Loyalty to someone other than himself, someone she did not want his team to see. Molly was trying to protect the identity of this person, with an alarming tenacity. Someone she deemed important, someone-

 

Mycroft froze, Molly breathing heavily down the phone into her ear.

 

‘Mycroft?’, Molly said, her voice uncertain.

 

**Result:** Sherlock. Strong positive- 97.3% on any expectation vs. observation scale.

 

‘I will be with you shortly,’ Mycroft said, his mind drowning and beating down on him, as with a jagged piece of glass.

 

//

 

Mycroft called off the team, and watched them walk away, Anthea following him into Molly’s flat.

 

Mycroft stared at Molly, at her ever-expressive face, and then down at his little brother, his baby brother, unconscious and unaware.

 

‘Mycroft’, Molly said, her voice breathless and awkward ( **Read:** she was thinking about their last conversation, their last….interaction. Ignore this. Think. _Sherlock_ ).

 

‘What is wrong with him?’, Mycroft said, knowing his voice was rough. He moved forward, dropping in front of the brother he had not seen in a year and six months, taking in the bruises and wild hair.

 

**Read:** Nothing. **Plan of action:** Nothing.

 

_He could not think._

 

‘He’s hurt and needs to go to hospital’, Molly said, her words tumbling out fast. ‘I don’t- I don’t know what to do!’

 

Mycroft looked at her, his eyes burning.

‘Help him’, Mycroft said, shortly. ‘You’re a doctor.’

 

To Mycroft’s alarm, Molly started crying, her shoulders heaving.

 

‘I ca-can’t!’, she said. ‘He has a fever, several infected wounds and is severely malnourished, he….he probably hasn’t eaten in days, weeks. His heartbeat is low because he’s not breathing properly. I have none of the equipment I’d need, and I….’

 

Molly gulped hard, and Mycroft forced himself not to betray the inner turmoil that was taking over his body, the sudden surprise of Sherlock being next to him, being _alive_ , porating his already fragile barrier. His hand itched to touch Molly’s face, to gather some calm, but he ignored it.

 

**Read:** Molly was already tired from the intensity of the morning. Her slumped shoulders suggested a tiredness of mind rather than body, her arms in a defensive pose, meaning insecurity. Most likely in her ability to take care of Sherlock, to treat someone she cares for deeply. **Result:** There was a possibility Molly was still in love with Sherlock.

 

Mycroft looked down at his hands, stretching them and then quickly closing them, his fingertips digging into his palms painfully, as he still crouched in front of Sherlock. He breathed heavily as his stomach twisted uncomfortably. He looked up again, looking at Molly.

 

‘You are a doctor’, Mycroft said, calmly. ‘Help him.’

 

Molly stared at him.

 

‘I’m..I can’t’, Molly said. ‘I haven’t done this sort of thing since I was in my registry in medical school, and now I work with dead people, Mycroft. He needs antibiotics I don’t have, saline, drips, his ribs need to be x-rayed because he’s struggling to breath and he could’ve punctured his lung….’

 

Mycroft felt panic well inside him as he touched Sherlock’s face carefully, noting the wounds on his neck, running to his back, a large number of burns.

 

**Read:** Sherlock had been tortured. Obviously.

 

‘You are a doctor’, Mycroft repeated.

 

Molly blinked at him, more tears welling at her eyes.

 

‘I am’, Molly said, her body shaking. ‘But I don’t know if I can, now.’

 

**Read** : Molly was too panicked to do anything.

 

Mycroft looked at Anthea, who was standing silently behind him, clicking on her phone. She looked at him.

 

‘Anthea?’, Mycroft said, trying to stay calm, feeling the breaks in it already.

 

‘I’m trying, sir’, Anthea said. ‘None of our….trusted medical experts can reach here within the hour.’

 

Mycroft breathed hard, gripping the sofa next to Sherlock’s face. He looked at Molly, who stared down at him, and Mycroft felt as though she could read his thoughts.

 

‘You are the British government’, Molly said, desperately. ‘Do something.’

 

_Do something._

 

Mycroft closed his eyes. When he opened them again, everything was frozen.

 

//

 

Mycroft looked at Molly’s frozen face, her sadness and struggle depicted on her face as though she was an ice sculpture. Mycroft briefly admired the softness of her face, the lines of worry that meant she cared not only about Sherlock, but also for him. Whether Molly’s regard for Sherlock still overwhelmed her regard for himself was another matter, and unimportant. Mycroft did not care whether Molly still loved Sherlock or not.

 

Sherlock stood in front of him, moving, his heart beating, in the frozen world that was Mycroft’s mind palace.

 

Sherlock looked down at the frozen picture, his own frozen self on Molly’s sofa.

 

‘You do care about her, don’t you?’, Sherlock said, a ridiculing smile on his face. ‘How very ordinary of you.’

 

Mycroft moved away from Molly’s frozen form, and looked around him, at the whole image, at Anthea’s determined face and hands etched onto her phone. Everything at standstill. He walked back to Molly, her slightly outstretched hands pointing at him.

 

‘I do not care for people’, Mycroft said, pointing at the Sherlock on the sofa. ‘Caring is what got you into the situation you are in now.’

 

Mind-Sherlock looked down at himself, looking thoughtful. His pale face illuminated in a way that had been dashed away in the one lying on the sofa.

 

‘True’, Sherlock said. ‘I admit I care….for some. I have not changed because of it.’

 

Mycroft stared at him. ‘You can not be serious.’

 

Sherlock smiled at him. ‘Caring can be…satisfactory. Everything is moderation, brother.’

 

‘One can not be moderately caring’, Mycroft retorted. ‘Just as one can not be moderately dead, or moderately in love.’

 

Sherlock’s eyes brightened at his last words.

 

‘Ah, there it is!’, Sherlock said, clapping his hands. ‘You said the word ‘love’ in a serious manner. You are correct. One can not moderately be in love. You’re in for the full hog, Mycroft.’

 

Mycroft scoffed at him.

 

‘You’re in my mind, Sherlock, try not to act smart’, Mycroft said. ‘You know fully well I am not in….love’.

 

‘Then why do you care?’, Sherlock said, circling Mycroft. ‘Why would anyone care if Mycroft Holmes….cared?’

 

Sherlock pointed to himself on the sofa.

 

‘If you didn’t care about Molly, or about me’, Sherlock said, nonchalantly. ‘You would’ve left me here to die. Or taken me to hospital, not caring what that would do to my plans, to my life. With a click of my fingers, just like that, you would know how to save me.’

 

Sherlock appeared right in front of Mycroft, and clicked his fingers repeatedly.

 

‘Come on, Mycroft, you’re the smart one’, Sherlock said, taunting him. ‘Save my life like you always think you can. Save it.’

 

Sherlock disappeared, replaced by someone else.

 

‘Save it’, he said. ‘Or does poor little Mycroft care too much? Whatever happened to the ice man?’

 

James Moriarty stood behind Molly’s frozen figure, staring intently at one side of her face.

 

‘I always thought she was sooooooooo pretty’, Moriarty said. ‘Wild in bed as well. But you wouldn’t know, would you Mycroft? Because little Molly Hooper doesn’t care about you at all.’

 

Mycroft blinked and Moriarty stood in front of him, looking disgusted.

 

‘Oh no! no, no no!’, Moriarty said. ‘Not you too!’

 

‘What?’, Mycroft said, his voice calm. The image of the room dimmed, and Mycroft found himself in his office, Moriarty sitting in his chair behind his desk.

 

Moriarty slammed his desk hard.

 

‘NO!’, he screamed. ‘How can you be so ordinary? WAKE UP!’

 

Mycroft flinched slightly at the screaming, suddenly Moriarty was standing in front of him, grabbing Mycroft’s jacket.

 

‘You care about Molly Hooper’, Moriarty said, and pushed Mycroft away, shrugging. ‘Sucks, I guess. I thought you’d be better than that. Boooooooooring.’

 

‘I do not care about Molly Hooper’, Mycroft said, firmly.

 

Moriarty laughed.

 

‘Nope!’, Moriarty said, his face liht up in glee. ‘Wrong again! You loooooove her. Do you love little Molly Hooper? I think so? Good, I love happy endings. It’s so much more fun to destroy those.’

 

‘You are dead’, Mycroft said, nonchalantly. ‘You no longer exist. Do not think you can play me.’

 

‘Oh, I’m not playing you’, Moriarty said. ‘I’m dead, like you said. But I’m still alive in your mind, you see? I can twist you, and turn you, and torment you a lot. If I want to. You see, Mycroft? You’re so weak you can’t even control your _mind.’_

Mycroft blinked, and they were back to the room, Molly’s face a few metres from Mycroft.

 

‘See, ew’, Moriarty said, standing on Mycroft’s side. ‘Even now you’re thinking about kissing her. Stop being boring, Mycroft, and think.’

 

Moriarty moved behind Molly, his face suddenly serious.

 

‘If you didn’t care about Molly Hooper’, Moriarty said, his voice deep and eerily normal. ‘Then why can’t you think of how to save Sherlock? You’re too busy thinking about HER!’

 

The last part was said in a scream, the words echoing around Mycroft.

 

‘You can’t even think!’, Moriarty yelled. ‘You’re boring, you’re ordinary, you’re normal!’

 

Mycroft swallowed hard, the burden of thinking bearing down on his head, pushing at his neck.

 

‘You are dead’, Mycroft said. ‘You tried to kill my brother. I will save him.’

 

Moriarty looked surprised, and when Mycroft blinked again, he was gone.

 

Mycroft turned around, and saw a younger Sherlock standing next to Anthea’s frozen figure, looking up at her. This was Sherlock at ten years old, Mycroft knew.

 

‘You never loved me’, Sherlock said, tears staining his face. ‘It’s why you left me and went to school forever’.

 

Mycroft crouched in front of his little brother, the little boy’s curly hair flying over his face. Mycroft’s heart twisted as he looked at him.

 

‘I never left you’, Mycroft said, his voice rough.

 

‘You’re a liar’, little Sherlock said. ‘You never loved me. Now you don’t even love me enough to save me.’

Little Sherlock disappeared in front of Mycroft’s eyes, and suddenly Mycroft found himself crouching above Moriarty, whose face was upside down with his body stretched ahead of Mycroft.

 

‘Wrong, doofus!’, Moriarty said, pulling a face. ‘Love is why you can’t save Sherlock, don’t you see? All it does is stop you. And now Sherlock is going to die, and he can stay with me forever!’

 

‘No’, Mycroft said. ‘No.’

 

Little Sherlock appeared again, tears pouring down his face.

 

‘You don’t love me’. Sherlock said. ‘You can’t save me because you don’t love me.’

 

The older Sherlock appeared next to younger Sherlock, and Mycroft’s mind swarmed when he realised he was now staring at three versions of Sherlock, with the frozen Sherlock on the sofa in the room.

 

‘Caring is a disadvantage’, said older mind- Sherlock. ‘Love is a chemical defect. It’s what you always told me to believe. But tell me Mycroft, do you believe it now?’

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, frustrated, his need to screaming becoming unbearable as the voices in his mind reached unimaginable decibels.

 

‘It’s in front of your face, Mycroft!’, Sherlock shouted, pointing at frozen Molly. ‘Look at her!’

 

Mycroft stared at Molly, feeling desperate and confused, allowing his guard down as he openly stared at her, and finally broke down in his own mind.

 

‘What do I do?’, he said, his voice croaking, to a frozen Molly. ‘I can’t save him.’

 

Mycroft crumpled, shame hitting him like a beating stick, bearing on his back.

 

‘Mycroft’, said a voice behind him. Mycroft ignored it, bowing his head and looking at frozen Molly’s fingers, angry at his own mind for not supplying answers, arguing with all the notions in his mind that he had, until this day, held true.

 

_What if he was wrong?_

 

‘Mycroft’.

 

_What if by not caring enough, he had killed his own brother? If he had cared more, he may been able to think of a way to find Sherlock treatment, without compromising._

‘Mycroft’.

 

_This should not have been above Mycroft’s ability, and yet it apparently was so._

‘Mycroft’.

 

Mycroft finally turned around, away from frozen Molly. Blinking hard, he found himself faced by _Molly,_ moving and happy.

 

She looked up at him, earnestly and smiling, and Mycroft’s heart leapt. She reached up and stroked his cheek.

 

‘It’ll be okay’, she said, confidently. ‘Look, the answer is in front of you.’

 

Mycroft looked at her carefully.

 

‘You’re the answer’, Mycroft said, his mind clearing. Molly beamed.

 

‘Exactly’, she said, bouncing. ‘You and me.’

 

Mind Molly took his hand, guiding him back to frozen Molly.

 

‘Look at me’, Mind Molly said, pointing at her frozen self. ‘What do you see?’

 

Mycroft stared at them both, finally understanding, his mind _working._

 

‘You’re a doctor’, Mycroft said, repeating his earlier words.

 

‘I may be a forensic pathologist, but I’m still more than capable of keeping someone alive’, Molly said. ‘I am _capable,_ just a little scared. You don’t have to do everything yourself, Mycroft. Just…Just let me help. Tell me to help.’

 

‘Of course’, Mycroft said. ‘You just need a little encouragement.’

 

Molly smiled at him, holding his hand, and a tingling sensation sprang across Mycroft’s chest.

 

//

 

‘Mycroft?’, Anthea said sharply, and Molly breathed hard when Mycroft suddenly blinked and looked around. ‘What were you thinking?’

 

Molly felt strained with the panic that filled her, that had frozen her body and mind, making her useless, and so helpless. She hadn’t saved Sherlock once for this, for Sherlock to become weaker and die in her living room, in her own space.

 

Molly flinched as she felt rather than saw Mycroft train his glaze at her, his eyes piercing blue, as if they were trying to enter her mind.  Mycroft sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. The carefully coiffed strands became loose, and his trousers crinkled as he stood up from the place he had been crouching next to Sherlock.

 

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, his voice clear. ‘I know you are more than capable of helping Sherlock. I have faith in your abilities.’

 

Molly blinked at him, and watched as he held his hand out towards her. She took it, remembering the way it had felt on her face just hours ago, and his stare became comfortable as she looked down at Sherlock. Her spirit rose, and her mind cleared, the panic that was previous sitting there receding.

 

_Think, Molly, think._

 

‘First’, Molly said, her voice still slightly shaking. ‘I need Anthea to break into Bart’s medical supplies.’

 

Anthea looked at her and Mycroft’s hand, grinning. Mycroft carefully let Molly’s hand go, and Molly mentally started listing the things she would need.

 

‘Excellent’, Anthea said, putting down her phone, a predatory look on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC.
> 
> That’s all for now folks! I hope it was okay, and not too disappointing. I had real fun writing Moriarty! Please comment and let me know what you thought- it causes faster updates! Also, if you have questions, prompts or just love tumblr, please follow me here: http://bloglavictoire.tumblr.com/


	14. Never Let Me Hit The Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you know when you're being manipulated, or are the manipulator? Molly realises that while both Holmes brothers are great people, they are definitely not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright enfringements intended. 
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello again! I come bearing the next chapter of HIPS! I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep it to posting one chapter a week now, as I barely have time to write during week days, what with my now 8am-5pm timetable. It sucks, but it has to be done.  
> Anyways, at this point, I need to point something out, to avoid confusion later: this story is only AU in the fact that Mycroft didn’t help Sherlock plan his fall, and really did sell him out to Moriarty. As this story goes on, it will start to slightly fit into the canon events of Series 3, so those of you who haven’t watched it may want to avoid reading after chapter 15. When I say ‘fitting into canon’ though…..i mean a canon with a Mollcroftian twist. Of course.
> 
> Okay there’s not much else to say, other than the usual:
> 
> This chapter was beta’d by the lovely and beautiful Adalind, who is the most patient and forgiving person ever, and really the best beta in the world. I think I’m actually never going to want anyone else as a beta ever again.  
> Also, this chapter was titled after the lyrics of ‘Parachute’, the Ingrid Michaelson version.
> 
> Finally….don’t kill me after you read this. I’m not evil, I promise. I think.
> 
>  
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

Mycroft held Molly’s hand, and she looked up at him, surprised at the gesture.

 

_I have faith in your abilities._

Her heart swelled, and Molly could actually feel her chest expanding to accommodate her enlarged heart, already sore with the rapid pace and harder beating. The words were engraved in her mind, and suddenly, like a plug had been loosened in her mind, Molly looked down at Sherlock, and she knew what to do.

 

_Penicillin, suture kit, saline drip, sterile dressings, alcohol-free wipes…._

 

‘Anthea, I need you to break into Bart’s’, Molly said, listing the items she would need. Anthea smiled at her, like a predator, her grin enlarging as her eyes zeroed in on Molly’s and Mycroft’s entangled hands. Molly blushed, she couldn’t help it, and she felt like she was welded to Mycroft, melted onto him.

 

Molly felt cold when Mycroft removed his hand, swiftly and elegantly, as though he was trying not to offend her- and Molly found she didn’t mind.

 

She wasn’t weak, she could feel it now. She could save someone, she could save Sherlock, and when she looked into Mycroft’s eyes, they said everything she already knew, and forgot in her insecurity, her lack of confidence.

_You have saved Sherlock before. You can do it again. I have faith in your abilities._

 

Anthea disappeared, claiming she would be back in a few minutes, and Molly looked at Mycroft, and tried to move her mind away from him. She had work to do. She could think about him later, try to decipher what had changed in the last hour, why Mycroft’s hands fit so well around hers, as though he knew exactly how to _hold_ her, what her buttons were.

 

‘Erm’, Molly muttered, distracted as she worked out logistics, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Mycroft, can you help me move Sherlock? I can’t…’

 

Mycroft’s eyes flickered down to Sherlock, and then back to her, his glaze burning her even though he was supposed to, _had to be_ , concentrating on Sherlock. Molly mentally re-called every piece of clinical etiquette she had ever learned.

 

‘Certainly’, Mycroft said. His eyes became strange as he moved Sherlock over, a sort of pain etching onto his face as Sherlock’s bruises were brought into full view, the wounds livid and bleeding, while others were worn and scarring.

 

Suddenly, all thoughts of- of herself and Mycroft disappeared, and focused on Sherlock.

 

‘What happened to him?’. Molly said, and she knew her voice was quiet and high-pitched. Her stomach became sore as her gut twisted at the sight of the man she had known for so long, unconscious and hurt, when all she could remember was how-how larger than life he could be.

 

Mycroft’s eyes were still on Sherlock.

 

‘Tortured’, Mycroft said, simply and painfully. ‘Brutally.’

 

‘Can you….will you find them?’, Molly said, anger and sadness burning through her, tearing at her throat. Mycroft looked up at her, his eyes bright and blazing with a cold icy ire.

 

‘Rest assured, Molly’, Mycroft said. ‘I will do more than find them’.

 

Molly shivered, a cold trail of ice jumping down her spine, and she nodded.

 

‘G-Good’, Molly said, and a strange feeling sprung in her chest. She was never one to want….to want violence, to wish someone actually to be hurt no matter how mean they were. She wasn’t cruel, she wasn’t a _fighter,_ but whoever had harmed Sherlockwas hurting Mycroft now. Someone who had done that had to- had to _pay_ for this, because nothing was truly terrible until it actually affected Mycroft Holmes.

 

Mycroft’s eyes moved over Molly, and she read approval in his expression, as though she had impressed him by feeling something other than sympathy and pity for Sherlock.

 

 _After all,_ Molly thought, _she would never have met Mycroft if it had not been for Sherlock. She would never have understood Mycroft if Sherlock had not been who he is- Mycroft was great but not good, unbeatable but very, very vulnerable, made so by his love for and need to protect Sherlock._

 

‘We need to bring his fever down’, Molly said, pointing urgently at Sherlock. Mycroft nodded, shrugging off his jacket and waist coat. He rolled up his sleeves and brought his arms under Sherlock, picking him up in one swift move. Molly tried not to blush, and distracted herself by scanning Sherlock as he was moved, making sure that there were no broken bones.

 

 _No fractures_ , she noted, as she watched Mycroft take Sherlock to her bedroom, and wondered how he had known where it was.

 

//

 

Sherlock’s fever was higher than she had thought, made worse by his infected wounds. Anthea came back with the supplies, and Mycroft sent her away soon after that, instructing her to cancel his various meetings and conferences. Molly watched this quietly, feeling Anthea’s concern seeping out of her skin into their surrounding air, and wondered why Mycroft told her, told everyone, that his occupation was more important than everything else, when it obviously wasn’t. She wondered why Sherlock said the same thing, again and again.

 

Molly cleaned Sherlock’s wounds the best that she could, feeling inadequate and inexperienced even thought she wasn’t. She fed a drip into him, and Mycroft was pressing a cold compress onto his brother’s head. Molly felt scared.

 

‘If his fever doesn’t reduce in the next few hours’, Molly said to Mycroft. ‘We have…we have to take him to hospital.’

 

Mycroft stared at her, and visibly gulped hard. She noticed a slight tremor in his hand, as he looked away, and Molly knew, she knew, that Mycroft felt as helpless as she did.

 

‘If we must’, Mycroft said, gravely.

 

‘S-Sherlock will forgive you’, Molly promised, knowing that she was probably very wrong.

 

Mycroft nodded absently. Molly reached over Sherlock to touch Mycroft’s hand, and her heart warmed when he slowly, delicately, wrapped his palm around hers, stroking her index finger with his thumb. His not-wedding band rubbed against her skin, and Molly shivered as the cold metal counteracted the warmth radiating from Mycroft’s hands.

 

//

 

‘When Sherlock was eleven, he fell in love with our au pair’, Mycroft told Molly, his arm resting lightly on Sherlock’s blankets, watching his thermometer. It was long past midnight now, into the early hours of the new day.

 

Molly giggled, sitting on a chair on the other side of Sherlock, her legs crossed on the seat.

 

‘Sherlock- Sherlock actually liked someone?’, Molly said, the idea sounding- sounding ridiculous to her. Mycroft shrugged solemnly.

 

‘It lasted about three days’, Mycroft said. ‘Then he woke up on the fourth day, and told me that hormones were the work of evil.’

 

‘I thought’, Molly said, trying not to laugh. ‘That Sherlock wasn’t-isn’t, I mean- effected by hormones.’

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

 

‘On the contrary’, Mycroft said. ‘Sherlock is as affected as any normal person by…adequate people….and biology.’

 

Molly fiddled with Sherlock’s fingers, her eyes flickering to his thermometer. Mycroft cleared his throat.

 

‘As am I’, Mycroft said, his voice rough. ‘An unfortunate weakness.’

 

Molly stared, her heart skipping a beat, before looking down again.

 

//

 

‘….I’ve always liked, erm, I don’t know- maybe red velvet?’, Molly said, pondering out loud. ‘I like cream cheese a lot.’

 

Mycroft nodded, approvingly. They were both now sitting on Molly’s bed, Sherlock embedded between them.

 

‘Carrot cake’, Mycroft said, simply. ‘Sherlock always knew to use cake to get me to do what he wished.’

 

‘I haven’t had carrot cake in ages’, Molly confessed. ‘And…you were-you can- be manipulated?’

 

Mycroft said nothing, a frown on his face.

 

‘I thought th-that’s what you do,’ Molly said, lightly, trying to show that she was teasing. She tried not to think of- of the bad times, of the times she remembered that she didn’t really know Mycroft, but did know how he could ruin her, make her feel like nothing,

 

It was funny, how, in times like now, it was so easy to forget that Mycroft could destroy her with a flick of his eyes.

 

‘Occasionally’, Mycroft said. ‘And only ever by Sherlock.’

 

There was a warning tone in his voice, slightly weary but strong, as though he was alerting himself, telling himself something that Molly would never be allowed to know.

 

Molly looked down at Sherlock, and pulled the thermometer out of his mouth. She smiled slightly, passing it to Mycroft.

 

‘He’s getting better’, Molly said gently.

 

The slightly quirk of Mycroft’s mouth, not aimed at her or even at Sherlock, warmed her in a way it shouldn’t have been able to.

 

 _Get a grip_ , Molly told herself. _You have a patient._

//

 

It was very early morning when Molly could officially say Sherlock was doing better. He still had a long way to go, Molly knew, and she constantly felt that she wasn’t good enough, that Sherlock wasn’t getting the care he needed, but she was doing the best she could, she really was.

 

She knew Mycroft was watching her work, running around and fussing, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t sit when she knew Sherlock could easily take a turn for the worse. She couldn’t _not_ do something when she had so much going through her mind. Her head buzzed with the implications of the events of the last day, and she could say that she deserved to feel- to feel restless after yesterday.

 

A bomb meant for her appearing at work, with _Jim Moriarty_ written on it, from _221B Baker Street_ , and Sherlock turning up in her home, unconscious and beaten- it couldn’t be a coincidence.

 

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, cutting into Molly’s thoughts. ‘You are becoming frantic.’

 

Molly glared at him. Mycroft ignored her.

 

‘Please get some sleep’, Mycroft said. ‘I shall watch Sherlock.’

 

‘But you haven’t slept either’, Molly said, and knew he couldn’t deny it. Mycroft had stayed awake the entire night, with her, watching Sherlock, worrying over him.

 

Mycroft shook his head.

 

‘I shall be fine,’ Mycroft said. ‘I am used to a lack of sleep, which you obvious are not.’

 

Molly tried not to glare at Mycroft again, and automatically felt ugly. She knew she probably had those dark purple circles around her eyes that always, always appeared after a night of no sleep. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were crumpled. Mycroft smiled at her, with his trademark smirk.

 

‘I shan’t be leaving’, Mycroft said. ‘Now scuttle.’

 

Molly didn’t try to stop herself. She glared at him, opening and closing her mouth as tiredness stopped her from being able to form an argument.

 

‘You’re-you’re not fair’, Molly said, and walked away to her guest room.

 

//

 

Molly woke up, had a shower, and walked to check on Sherlock.

 

Mycroft was asleep, sitting upright on what was now Sherlock’s bed, his head lolling forward on the head-board.

 

Molly felt something blossom in her chest, and felt herself smile shyly as she tip-toed into the room, taking care to not slam the bedroom door.

 

Mycroft looked a lot….calmer, Molly knew. In his waking hours, his face was always carefully schooled to look blank, uncaring, but with time, even Molly could see the inner conflict and frustration underneath, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings, other people. His shoulders were loose in a way they never were when Mycroft was awake, and a strange sadness filled Molly as she realised that she may not see Mycroft this….this unguarded again. She admired his thick eyelashes, the unlined, unstressed face for as long as she could. This was rare, she knew, for him to fall asleep on anything he considered work or important.

 

Molly sighed softly, closing her eyes for a second.

 

‘Molly?’

 

Molly sprang backwards, looking at Mycroft. He had jerked awake, but as they both looked at each other, it was obvious the voice hadn’t come from Mycroft.

 

Horror filled Molly as she saw Sherlock looking up at them both, a curious expression on his face. Suddenly, it was replaced by disgust.

 

‘How lovely’, Sherlock drawled, looking at Mycroft. ‘First thing I see when I wake up is your fat face.’

 

‘Sherlock!’, Molly said, resisting the urge to slap him. Mycroft shook his head slightly at her, and she tried to calm down, seeing Sherlock’s expression turn curious again. She felt horror climb up her back, through her neck and her face, as she felt Sherlock read her, observe her in a way Mycroft no longer did.

 

‘I see that you are well,’ Mycroft said, dryly. ‘You should rest now.’

 

Sherlock sat up with a jump, staring around the room.

 

‘England,’ Sherlock said, his voice excited.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. ‘I see the fever has slowed down your brain, brother.’

 

Sherlock glared at him, his eyes flickering to Molly. ‘I see your brain has slowed down…in your old age. Feel lonely much, Mycroft?’

 

Molly felt Mycroft recoil next to her, such a small reaction she would have probably never even felt it, if she had not been so close to him.

 

‘I don’t know what you mean’, Mycroft said, tartly.

 

Sherlock groaned.

 

‘I wish I was still being tortured,’ Sherlock said, whining. ‘It’s preferably to being stuck here with you meddling in my business.’

 

Mycroft stared at Sherlock. ‘I do not meddle. It’s only for your own good, Sherlock.’

 

‘It’s only for your own good, Sherlock’, Sherlock mimicked, in an uncanny representation of Mycroft’s voice. ‘You are an idiot, Sherlock. You can’t take care of yourself, Sherlock. Here, let me baby-feed you, Sherlock, let me smother you with this pillow-’

 

‘Sherlock!’, Molly said, unable to take it. ‘S-shut up!’

 

Sherlock stared at Molly, looking bewildered, a look Molly had not seen on him before.

 

‘What have you done to her?’, Sherlock said to Mycroft, looking horrified.

 

//

 

Molly was definitely- most definitely- not in love with Sherlock.

 

She didn’t know if she had ever been, or if it had been an infatuation, or if she had just admired him and turned it into something else in her head. Because Sherlock was admirable, Molly knew, he was brilliant. But one thing Molly did know, now, was that she could never love him in the way she- she loved Mycroft.

 

She didn’t know if she was really in love with Mycroft, or whether it was also an infatuation, an admiration, any different from what she felt for Sherlock, now or before. But it felt different, different in a way that stuck her heart in her throat and made it sore with wanting whenever he was there. It felt different in the way that she didn’t feel weak because of it all, but felt stronger, more confident, more like a human. She didn’t feel like she had to give into anything when it came to Mycroft, but she had to rise to his level and above, to be everything she always knew she could be- because when he looked at her, he saw her, and he didn’t seem to hate what he saw. More than anything else, this was what affected Molly the most- the fact that Mycroft seemed to not mind her awkwardness, her strange love to cats and weird things, her shyness and tendency to ramble about her work. What she felt for Mycroft now was definitely not what she felt for Sherlock, or what she had thought she felt for him.

 

But in the next couple of weeks, Molly found herself watching how she acted around Mycroft, being careful. Sherlock was always there, watching her like a hawk, watching her hands, her eyes, her lips when she talked and moved around Mycroft. He was nothing if not horrible to Mycroft, yelling and insulting him in a way he never, ever had yelled at her, and sometimes she wondered how and why Mycroft bore it at all.

 

‘He’s my brother’, Mycroft said simply, when Molly asked him one day, away from Sherlock’s prying eyes. ‘I owe it to him.’

 

‘You don’t owe him anything’, Molly insisted. ‘You-You shouldn’t let him treat you like…like that.’

 

Mycroft nodded absently at her, and she knew he wasn’t listening.

 

‘I can move Sherlock to a flat, if you wish’, Mycroft said. ‘I do not wish to inconvenience you.’

 

Molly shook her head.

 

‘N-No’, Molly said. ‘It’s alright. I don’t mind.’

 

Mycroft nodded again, looking at her oddly, as though he was trying to read her. He looked sad and she didn’t know why.

 

Sherlock continued to watch her carefully and quietly, from his space on her sofa, but never said a word about Mycroft. Molly didn’t know if this was a good or a bad thing, but she wasn’t going to ask.

 

//

 

Sherlock began growing a fungus library in Molly’s kitchen. Her glasses were replaced by oddly sized beakers and cylinders, and anger filled Molly.

 

‘Sherlock!’, Molly said. Sherlock looked at her dully. ‘What- What is this?’

 

‘Experiments’, Sherlock said, his voice condescending. ‘Obviously.’

 

Toby the cat walked around, and Molly gasped as she noticed that his- his _fur_ was missing.

 

‘Sherlock!’, Molly screamed. ‘What did you do to Toby?’

 

‘Bored’, Sherlock replied, and flopped on her sofa.

 

 _Definitely not in love with Sherlock,_ Molly thought.

 

//

 

‘Mycroft is planning something with Sherlock’, Molly said, two weeks later. Molly was sitting with Anthea at a bar, her hands laced around a beer glass.

 

Anthea nodded slightly, neither admitting nor denying her words.

 

‘Is…Is Mycroft helping Sherlock with his…mission?’, Molly said. She wasn’t sure what exactly Sherlock had been doing, or was going to be doing, but all she knew was that he couldn’t do it alone, not anymore.

 

‘He needs Mycroft’s help’, Anthea said, fiddling with her coat. ‘Whether he admits it or not. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t yet said a single good word to Mycroft.’

 

‘Sherlock cares for him’, Molly said, after a beat. ‘He might….he acts mean, because he-he cares. And it’s hard for them to…care. I think.’

 

A silence passed between them.

 

‘I don’t like Sherlock’, Anthea said, suddenly, and Molly looked at her, surprised.

 

‘But- why not?’, Molly said. ‘He’s your-‘

 

‘My boss’s brother’, Anthea said. ‘I don’t have to like him. And I don’t.’

 

‘I know S-Sherlock isn’t the easiest person to get on with’, Molly said. ‘But he isn’t …bad.’

 

Anthea looked at her.

 

‘That’s the problem’, Anthea said. ‘He isn’t a bad person, but he plays Mycroft like he is.’

 

Molly wasn’t sure whether Anthea was referring to Sherlock or Mycroft, anymore.

 

‘And I hate’, Anthea said. ‘I hate that Sherlock is going to play you too. Mycroft isn’t the only one who manipulates people.’

 

‘Sherlock isn’t a bad person’, Molly insisted, and looked back down at her glass.

//

 

Mycroft was weary of Sherlock, Molly realised. Mycroft avoided Molly around Sherlock, moving around her like she was a foreign object, something dangerous. He talked to Sherlock in riddles, and Sherlock mostly ignored Mycroft, but sometimes listened intently.

 

Three weeks after Sherlock appeared in her flat, Molly came home from work to catch Mycroft and Sherlock fighting.

 

‘What-Wait!’, Molly said, confused. ‘What….What’s going on?’

 

Mycroft looked at Molly, and then looked down. Sherlock looked furiously

 

‘I have to go’, Mycroft said finally. ‘I have a meeting with the prime minister.’

 

‘Let him know that his children’s nanny has been growing cannabis in their family garden for the last three weeks,’ Sherlock said. ‘It’s a terrible shame that your mind is so…busy these days. Very unfortunate. You’re slacking.’

 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Molly felt suddenly sick, and she knew something was terribly wrong.

 

‘Mycroft’, Molly said, as he passed her. Mycroft didn’t look at her.

 

‘Goodbye Molly’, Mycroft said, and walked out her door. She watched him go, and then looked at Sherlock.

 

‘You always….’, Molly said, her heart hurting for some reason. ‘You always say-do- such mean things.’

 

Sherlock looked at her, regarding her.

 

‘It isn’t I who does mean things’, Sherlock said. ‘I told you to stay away from Mycroft, Molly.’

 

‘You just…’, Molly said, gulping. ‘Why should I listen to everything you say?’

 

‘Because I’m always right’, Sherlock said. ‘Mycroft is a dangerous man. Stay away from him.’

 

Molly looked at him, then at the door that Mycroft had walked out of.

 

‘N-No,’ Molly said, and walked to her bedroom, slamming the door.

 

//

 

Over the next two days, Molly didn’t see Mycroft.

 

She knew he was still coming to visit Sherlock, but after she had gone to sleep, or when she was at work. She could smell his cologne on her chair, in her kitchen, and she missed it, missed him.

 

She didn’t know what had happened that night, what Sherlock had said to Mycroft that made him act so…cowardly. Because Mycroft wasn’t a coward, Molly knew, and she thought they had been…they had been getting on better. She wasn’t stupid enough to think he would- he could- care about her, but she thought that at least, at least they could be friends. But now he was openly avoiding her, and Molly had never felt so cold.

 

Wiping her tears, Molly texted Anthea.

 

_Where are you? Molly._

A few minutes later, Anthea texted back.

 

_At work, of course. Why? A._

Molly breathed hard, and picked up her coat.

 

‘Where are you going?’, Sherlock said, from her kitchen table, a blow torch in hand.

 

‘N-nowhere’, Molly said. ‘Don’t blow anything up.’

 

_I need to meet Mycroft. Please. And don’t tell him._

_One of these days, Mycroft is actually going to fire me. A._

//

There was a knock on the door. Mycroft froze.

 

 **Read:** Slight but strong knock. Suggested a smaller hand, most likely female. The knock resonated from near the middle section of the door, implying a shorter person. This information was not necessary as he had long since arrived at the conclusion. He knew it was Molly.

 

‘Come in’, Mycroft said. Molly should not have come to see him.

 

Molly walked through the door, shutting it firmly behind her.

 

 **Read:** Angry. Most likely with him- strong positive. But she is trying to hide it and seem confident, which she is not, as implied by her shaking hands.

 

Mycroft kept a straight, blank face, his personal trademark. He did not look at Molly- he did not wish to betray himself.

 

‘How can I help you?’, Mycroft said, staring adamantly at the papers on his desk. ‘I’m sure Anthea could have seen to it.’

 

Molly faltered, but then stood her ground.

 

‘You’ve been….’, Molly started, her voice croaking. ‘You’re ignoring me. W-Why?’

 

Mycroft looked up, his stare fixed above Molly’s shoulders.

 

‘On the contrary’, Mycroft said. ‘I have not. I have visited your home just yesterday.’

 

Molly looked at him, incredulous ( **read:** very angry, sad).

 

‘Only to see-see Sherlock!’, Molly said, her voice rising in volume. ‘You don’t talk to me anymore. You only come to see Sherlock when I’m not there, when I’m at work. Why?’

 

Mycroft stared at Molly, his face blank.

 

‘I do not know what you’re talking about,’ Mycroft said. He didn’t want to look at her, feel her anger radiating from her space, her form heaving with hard breaths.

 

Something seemed to burst inside Molly, her anger appearing to reach a boiling point. Her face became read, her body shaking.

 

 **Plan of action:** Nothing. Mycroft had never been very good at dealing with angry women with which he was…..involved.

 

Mycroft frowned to himself. He was not involved with Molly Hooper.

 

‘What did Sherlock…..what did he say to you?’ Molly said.

 

Mycroft froze, a cold seeping into his clothes, and his shoulders began to ache. He told himself to retreat. It was all he could do now.

 

I am not a sentimental man.

 

‘Molly’, Mycroft said. ‘If you know what is good for you, you will leave now.’

 

_‘Molly is naïve’, Sherlock had said. ‘Don’t think I don’t know you are taking advantage of that.’_

_Mycroft frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I wish to take advantage of Dr Hooper?’_

_‘I don’t know’, Sherlock said, breathing furiously. ‘That’s what doesn’t make sense. She has nothing to offer you. She is beneath you. What makes her…..special…..enough to entice Mycroft Holmes?’_

_‘I am not enticed by Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said. ‘You are mistaken. What made you take notice of Molly?’_

_Sherlock stayed silent for a moment. ‘I never took notice of Molly. She took notice of me, and refused to leave.’_

_Mycroft nodded._

_‘She attaches herself to the wrong type of person’, Sherlock said. ‘Look at Moriarty. But you would…..you would be the worst yet.’_

_Mycroft almost flinched. He looked at his brother, his expression cold._

_‘Worse than Moriarty?’, Mycroft said, quietly._

_‘Definitely’, Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft. ‘I don’t want to have to save Molly as well. Stay away from her or….’_

_Sherlock trailed off._

_‘Or?’, Mycroft prompted._

_‘You’re worse than Moriarty’, Sherlock said. ‘Because you gave Moriarty his ammunition.’_

_Sherlock looked away from Mycroft._

_‘It’s a pity Molly doesn’t appear to know that’, Sherlock said._

_Both brothers turned towards the door, Molly’s keys scraping the door._

_‘You are not a sentimental man’, Sherlock said, in warning. ‘Caring is not an advantage.’_

_Mycroft nodded. ‘Very well.’_

Molly breathed, and Mycroft watched her, imagining the warmth of her breath between his fingers, across his face.

 

‘I ne-never’, Molly said. ‘I never do what’s good for me. Don’t you see?’

 

Mycroft flinched, and his shoulders began to hurt in earnest, his heart beating hard. He moved away from his desk, towards Molly who was obviously shaking.

 

‘Does Sherlock know you are here?’, Mycroft said.

 

Molly shook her head. Mycroft reached towards her, grasping her face.

 

 **Plan of action:** Retreat.

 

‘Sherlock will know anyway’, Mycroft, his voice rougher than he intended, unable to control the intensity and pitch of it, as he usually would.

 

_You are not a sentimental man._

Mycroft wasn’t a sentimental man, nor was he an emotional one. But he was one to realise when he was about to lose to his brother.

 

‘I do not like losing’, Mycroft said, stroking Molly’s cheek with his thumb, feeling every individual whorl on his finger imprint onto Molly’s skin, her cheeks rising from pink to red in seconds. He watched her expression carefully, watched her pupils dilate as the intensity and chocolate-brown of her eyes widened.

 

Molly began to frown at him. ‘This isn’t….this isn’t a game. I just-’

 

 **Plan of action:** Act fast.

 

Molly began to move away for a second, seeming conflicted, and Mycroft caught her face, latching lips to hers. Molly gasped into the sudden kiss, her breath falling into his mouth, the warm spreading down Mycroft’s body. Then as quickly as she could, Mycroft felt Molly catch on, and push harder, her smaller body fitting into his, her tongue fitting into his mouth. He could feel the tremble of her body across his stomach, and he craved the feel of her skin on his, to expose the parts of her he couldn’t see.

 

Her fingers reached as far up his neck as they could, gripping onto the hairs on the back of his head, pulling slightly. Mycroft pulled away for a second, and then pushed back to kiss her again briefly, and then pulled away for good.

 

‘Mycroft-‘, Molly said, finally, her lips bruised and red.

 

‘Please leave’, Mycroft said, not looking at Molly.

 

‘But…I….’, Molly said, a range of emotions flitting across her face- from happiness to abject anger to overtly obvious sadness. Mycroft realised that either he had never inspired such emotions in anyone, or he had never been around to see it, until now.

 

‘Please leave’, Mycroft repeated, feeling as though a chord within him had broken. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘And listen to what Sherlock tells you.’

 

Molly was staring at him, Mycroft knew, and he could not face her expression.

 

‘What….What will Sherlock tell me?’, Molly said. ‘Why should…Why does Sherlock matter, here, now?’

 

‘Because I’m afraid what he will tell you is correct’, Mycroft said. ‘I will not deny it. I do not wish to be around once you hear what he has to say.’

 

He heard Molly leave. Mycroft walked over to his desk, and poured whisky into his glass.

 

_You will hate me when you do._

//

 

Molly felt as though her head was not within her body. She felt like crying, but refused to, because she didn’t, she really didn’t want to cry over Mycroft, again.

She let herself into her flat, into Sherlock’s space.

 

Sherlock was staring at her from her sofa, his face an odd array of expressions. He blanked them the minute he realised she was staring.

 

‘I don’t…’ Molly said. ‘I don’t want to talk now.’

 

‘You went to see Mycroft’, Sherlock said, his eyes flitting over her body, swiping information like a frog to flies. ‘I told you to stay away from him.’

 

‘Sherlock-‘, Molly started, but Sherlock cut in.

 

‘He’, Sherlock started, and then stopped for a second. He seemed conflicted, and Molly, for a second, wondered what could make him seem so.

 

‘He’s manipulating you’, Sherlock said. ‘Even now. He always has been, I’m sure.’

 

Molly shook her head, and started to walk away.

 

‘No’, Molly said. ‘I don’t want to-‘

 

‘He told Moriarty everything about me’, Sherlock said. ‘So Moriarty knew how to attack me.’

 

Molly stopped in her tracks. Her heart stopped beating.

 

‘What?’, Molly said, slowly.

 

‘Moriarty would never have been able to accomplish what he did if it had not been for my dear brother’, Sherlock said, conversationally. ‘Mycroft, although not completely without duress, told Moriarty about my weaknesses, my life story, everything Moriarty needed to win.’

 

Molly didn’t say anything, but felt something break in her chest.

 

‘His…’, Sherlock said, not looking at Molly. ‘He sold his own brother. For queen and country, of course. My brother is nothing if not patriotic.’

 

‘You’re his _brother,_ ’ Molly said, her voice wobbling. She didn’t want to believe what she was hearing, but it…there it was. Mycroft had not- would not- change.

 

‘Exactly’, Sherlock said, his face blank. ‘If he can sacrifice his own brother, who else would he not use?’

 

_This is my redemption._

‘There is no such thing as redemption’, Sherlock said, reading Molly’s thoughts, looking away from her. ‘There is no one to rescue us from our own mistakes.’

 

Sherlock’s eyes turned to Molly, and Molly was reminded of the way Mycroft had looked at her at Sherlock’s funeral, the way his eyes had pierced her, and seen her.

 

_If you can sacrifice your own brother, then what hope do I have?_

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! I don’t know why I insist on using that Looney Tunes phrase at the end of every chapter, just indulge me guys. I’m going to confirm now that this story’s chapters have now increased to 21 chapters- and there it will stay. I refuse to let this story get anymore of a monster than it already has.  
> Anyways, please read and comment- honestly, your comments always help keep me interested in writing this story, and encouragement always, always helps with fast and regular updates. They definitely wake up the plotbunnies.
> 
> Also, if you have tumblr and want updates on this story, or any of my other stories, or have questions, prompt ideas etc, please follow me here: http://bloglavictoire.tumblr.com/


	15. I'll Never Let Go Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a lot of demons to face up to, most of them being in the form of his brother. Molly realises that love....well love is a leap of faith, more than anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright infringements intended. I also don’t own Starbucks etc.  
> Author's Notes: Hello again. After many, many problems of various kinds, I present to you chapter 15. I can’t believe this story has come this far, or even how I still have motivation for it- it goes to show how much I love this pairing.  
> I would like everyone to please note a few things, so here goes:  
> IMPORTANT!: I was very careful with the timings in this story, until the last couple of chapters, where I appear to have lost my head- this story is going to veer into series 3 canon (at least my mollcroftian version of it), so timing is important. By the end of this chapter, it will be over a year and a half into Sherlock’s hiatus, and so around SIX MONTHS before Sherlock reappears at Baker’s Street in series 3 canon. If this story is to fit into the canon, this is important.  
> Also, I would like to point out I am as knowledgable about planets and stars as Sherlock is. Really. Me and astrology kind of never gelled.  
> And also….er…..this isn’t Sherlolly. Just saying. I love Sherlolly and I love Mollcroft, but this is overall a mollcroft fic. Just, you know, saying that for no reason, no reason at all.  
> Finally, the usual:  
> This chapter was beta’d by the lovely Adalind, who is amazing, brilliant, fantastic and every other good word out there- despite the hard times she’s currently going through, she still somehow finds time to beta this heffa of a story.  
> Also, this chapter was named after the song ‘Bones’, by Young Guns, which was incidentally the band whose music I used to name the very first chapter of this story.
> 
> Finally, finally, please note that the rating has now gone up to M rated. While it doesn’t quite earn that here, it will in future chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

When Molly was two years old, turning three, her mother started to read her fairytale stories before bed. It had turned into a tradition between them, and Molly loved the attention and love that her mother poured into their time together, the warmth of her mother’s lap and her soft pink duvet.

 

One day, Molly’s mother began to read Cinderella, the age-old story seeping through Molly’s brain, into her then tiny beating heart. Molly listened with great concentration, imagining the prince in her mind, how kind he must be, how beautiful and wise. At that age, love had meant everything to Molly, as it did now, but it was more simple then- love was her mother’s tight hugs, her father’s loud bear laughs, her friends’ squeals of delight when Molly came to school. Romantic love was still a concept that had barely occurred to Molly, but she knew it existed, and that it was love all the same.

 

‘Mummy’, Molly had said, thoughtfully. ‘What is love?’

 

Molly’s mother looked at her young daughter fondly.

 

‘Love? It’s kind of hard to explain, Molly dear’, her mother had said. Seeing her daughter’s disappointment, she continued. ‘Love is…love is when you care about someone, really care about them.’

 

Molly thought about this.

 

‘Then what….what is caring?’, Molly asked, earnestly. She pointed at her teddy bear, squashed between them. ‘I care for Barry the bear, does that count?’

 

Molly’s mother laughed.

 

‘Of course’, she said, stroking Molly’s hair. ‘Love is whatever you want it to be. Caring is a form of love- its how you show someone you love them.’

 

‘So….you love daddy’, Molly said. ‘And you love…me. You kiss daddy and you kiss me, too. You buy us both clothes. So does that mean you care about us the same amount?’

 

Molly looked up at her mother, her mum, questioningly.

 

‘I love you both huge amounts’, Molly’s mother said, holding her arms out to show her how much. ‘But differently.’

 

‘Why is it different?’, Molly asked, confused. ‘Is daddy more important because he’s a grown up like you?’

 

Molly’s mother laughed.

 

‘No, of course not’, she said. ‘But there are different kinds of love. Your daddy is my husband. You are my daughter, my child. You show your love for a child and a husband differently.’

 

‘Different kinds of love?’, Molly said, still confused.

 

‘Different kinds of love’, Molly’s mother confirmed. ‘But it doesn’t mean I love you less or I love your daddy less.’

 

‘You don’t?’, Molly said, cuddling up to her mother in her small bed, the fairytale book forgotten.

 

‘No, I don’t’, her mother said. ‘Your daddy is….is my prince charming, but better. He doesn’t have to save me because we both save each other. Because we love each other. Do you understand?’

 

Molly nodded, although she didn’t, not completely.

 

‘So….does that mean I’m Cinderella?’ Molly asked. ‘Does that mean the new baby is going to be my ugly step sister?’

 

She touched her mother’s swollen stomach, both of their hands falling over the curve that hadn’t been there several months before.

 

‘No’, her mother said, smiling gently. ‘You aren’t Cinderella. And baby won’t be an ugly step sister. For one, she’s your actual sister. Plus, she’ll be as pretty as her big sister.’

 

Molly giggled as her mum pulled her cheeks.

 

‘But’, Molly said, laughter dying. ‘Who am I?’

 

Molly felt confused, a frown passing through her small and chubby face, her eyebrows scrunched into a furrow as she was catapulted with thoughts.

 

‘You are better than Cinderella’, her mother said, hugging her daughter. ‘Because you’ll be smarter, stronger and definitely more beautiful.’

 

Her mother put a hand under Molly’s chin, raising it to look straight in her eyes.

 

‘You can be whoever you want to be,’ the woman said. ‘And I’ll always be proud of you.’

 

‘So…’, Molly said, scrunching her nose. ‘Does that mean I’ll have a prince charming? Boys are gross.’

 

Molly’s mother laughed.

 

‘You might not think that in ten years time’, her mother informed her, and Molly made whining sounds. Molly’s mother laughed, and grabbed Molly, pulling the little girl against her.

 

‘How do I know when I meet my prince charming?’, Molly said, grumbling. ‘Will he be blonde?’

‘He doesn’t have to be’, Molly’s mother said, kissing her daughters head. Molly looked at her questioningly, and the older woman smiled.

 

‘You can be whoever you want to be’, her mother said again, looking deep in thought. ‘And your prince charming will be someone that loves you for it.’

 

Nearly thirty years later, Molly thought back to this memory, savouring the remnants of her mother in the image. She missed the warmth, missed the obvious, unconditional love.

 

Most of all, she wished she could tell her mother that she had met the man that accepted her for who she was, but he definitely wasn’t prince charming. _She didn’t want him to be._

 

//

 

 

‘You deserve it’, Sherlock said. His words were full of a security and belief that cut through Mycroft, leaving invisible marks on his skin, jagged and raw. ‘Even you know that’.

 

 **Read:** Sherlock’s jaw was struck in an odd position, indicating confusion and anger at the situation. Also, his resolute belief that he was right and his fidgeting fingers suggested he was conflicted. Conflicted about the situation, his own thoughts, Mycroft’s reaction. Interesting. Sherlock never doubted himself, at least not subjectively. **Plan of action** : how Mycroft wished he could strangle his brother. Remain calm.

 

Mycroft stared down at his jacket sleeve, his eyes spanning over the intricate weaving. Sherlock had obviously just talked to Molly, turned her against him for the last time. The last ammunition against Mycroft used for, something Sherlock had never thought he would need to use for.

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft said, feeling numb. ‘I would have liked for it to have been less...’

 

Mycroft trailed off, and he could feel his brother’s eyes on him, burning and bright.

 

‘Less what?’, Sherlock said, almost scoffing. ‘Less painful? Less brutal? You can not make something less of what it already is, Mycroft. You should know, since it was you that taught me so.’

 

‘I do not mean for me!’, Mycroft snapped, and slammed his hands hard on his desk. Sherlock visibly flinched, moving involuntarily away from his older brother. Mycroft looked into his brother’s eyes, blue meeting blue, and he saw confusion overwhelm Sherlock’s expression for a second.

 

 **Read:** Sherlock feels very conflicted. It appears that his younger brother does have a rather hidden emotional counterpart. **Plan of action:** Undecided. Sherlock is not an emotional man.

 

Just for a second, but Mycroft relished it, relished overcoming Sherlock in one aspect at least, when, of late, it felt like Sherlock was winning at every hurdle.

 

Sherlock blinked at Mycroft, a mixture of emotions on his face for a second, before it became blank. Mycroft calmed down, breathing deeply. He never spoke louder than was socially appropriate, not even when he wished to yell at his brother, to torment him with harsh words and insults. He would not do it.

 

‘I meant for Dr Hooper’, Mycroft finished. ‘You must know she is of…a rather emotional nature’.

 

‘Which is what makes this all the more puzzling’, Sherlock said, walking up to Mycroft. ‘You hate emotions. What makes Molly different?’

 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, and, for the first time in his life, he wished that he could stop….caring…about his brother, just leave him be and forget him.

 

‘That, brother’, Mycroft said, his voice deep and rough. Sherlock looked at him again, with a jerk of his head, an uncertain look flickering over him ‘is none of your business.’

 

Sherlock said nothing for a moment.

 

‘But why her?’, Sherlock said, a whining tone undertaking his voice, confusion and wonder in his voice. ‘It doesn’t make sense! From the age of ten, you have been telling me that love is nothing but a disadvantage. What am I supposed to take from this?’

 

‘What you take from this’, Mycroft said, looking down ‘is that I am not in love.’

 

Sherlock looked at him silently, incredulously.

 

‘You’re in denial’, Sherlock said, shortly. ‘You can not be serious, Mycroft’.

 

‘An infatuation’, Mycroft said, his eyes closed. ‘A…seduction. Even powerful men are capable of vulnerability to such behaviours, Sherlock.’

 

‘I don’t like this’, Sherlock said. ‘Is this a sport for you? You kidnapped John, Lestrade…now you’re trying to kidnap Molly. Just in a more permanent manner.’

 

‘I have done nothing of the sort’, Mycroft said. ‘Stop being ridiculous, brother mine’.

 

‘It is you that is being ridiculous’, Sherlock said. ‘You can understand now why it was necessary to keep Molly away from you.’

 

‘She was never in any danger from me’, Mycroft said, through gritted teeth.

 

‘No’, Sherlock said, moving closer to Mycroft. ‘Not when you’re a danger to _yourself_. Why not just admit it, Mycroft? You’ve lost. To your own standards.’

 

‘Shut up’, Mycroft said, his mind swarming. ’I’m warning you.’

 

‘You’re in love with Molly’, Sherlock said. ‘I must say, even I never thought I’d see this day. I wasn’t even sure you liked women.’

 

Mycroft said nothing, clutching at the edge of his desk.

 

‘Would it be so terrible to admit you care?’, Sherlock said, suddenly. Mycroft looked up, and found himself peering past his brothers blank face, seeing a storm behind the mask.

 

‘I don’t like it. And obviously you’ve been lying to me your entire life’, Sherlock said. ‘But surely even you need….friends?’

 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, and gulped hard, putting a stopper on the bile rising up his throat. He knew what Sherlock was doing, what he was offering, a sacramental olive branch between them.

 

‘I do not need friends’, Mycroft said, finally, closing down any….negotiations between himself and Sherlock. ‘I have no use for them.’

 

Sherlock was silent, his face blank again.

 

‘Of course’, Sherlock said, after a few seconds, monotonously. ‘Friends would be a bad idea. Molly, even more so. After all, you would only just hurt her. It could never end well.’

 

Mycroft found himself nodding, earnestly and truthfully.

 

‘You’re lonely, brother’, Sherlock said. ‘But only because you are a terrible person. We both are.’

 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, and found his brother staring into the distance, his words faint and….sad.

 

Mycroft wondered whether Sherlock did not mean what he said, or whether he was sad that they were, completely and irrevocably, true.

_//_

A month after Sherlock told her about Mycroft’s betrayal, Molly sat on a bench in the middle of a shopping centre, the same one on which she had first had her revelations about her feelings for Mycroft. The bench felt harder, less …forgiving on her skin, somehow. The screams and yells around her dimmed, and Molly thought about the last few weeks, and found that her heart ached.

 

Mycroft was ignoring her. Molly knew she could lie to herself, and say that he was worried about Sherlock, concerned about his brother’s future, but even Molly knew what glassy eyes and muted expressions meant. Every other day, Mycroft came to see Sherlock, and Sherlock, for what it was worth, never complained and met his brother quietly. Molly would stand and stare at them both for a while, Mycroft turning his back on her, rigid and….and un-yielding, then she would mutter a pathetic excuse and hide in her kitchen.

 

Molly still….she still felt the kiss, remembered how dark Mycroft’s eyes had been, the beat of his pulse under her fingers, his warm, rapid breaths on her cheek. She knew, she definitely knew, that there was _something_ between them, and it hurt, it really hurt that he could ignore it. _Ignore her._

 

_How could she be in love with someone, someone like Mycroft?_

 

Molly had cried the night Sherlock had told her the truth, mentally punching herself, cursing her brain. After all, she had once, willingly, dated Moriarty, one of the most insane and criminal men in the world. And now she was falling, had fallen, for someone that was probably not that unlike him. Mycroft was not….he wasn’t cruel, he wasn’t unusual, at least in the sense of Moriarty, but he was-was terrible, a definitely not good person.

 

_If you can sacrifice your own brother, then what hope do I have?_

She was stronger than this, she was _better_ than this. She would not be _used_ , she simply wouldn’t allow it.

 

So when Mycroft left her flat one day, she didn’t look at him as he left, she didn’t cry when she went to bed.

 

As Molly sat on the bench in the shopping centre, she couldn’t help but feel cold, feel alone. She knew she needed to, for her own sake, stay away from Mycroft, who would do nothing but hurt her. So she did.

 

It didn’t stop her heart from aching, but it was a start.

 

//

Sherlock was watching her.

 

Molly tried her hardest to not think about what it meant. She carried on with her work, with her life, carefully circling around Sherlock in her flat, as though he was the sun and she was a distant, isolated and much more inferior star. It was an apt description, she decided, and then imagined herself as a star once bright and new, that was now dulled and dying. It was definitely how she felt these days, like a star that had had so much potential, but had peaked, and now lay in the sky, just one of the many million of other dying/fading stars.

 

She knew she had to stop thinking like that. She went to work everyday, never missing a single morning of work, and she knew she was being watched by Sherlock.

 

He didn’t necessarily act any different than before. He continued to destroy her kitchen, use her utensils for purposes they had never been intended for. He left scorch marks on her coffee table, continued to somehow take up both her sofa and her bedroom during most of his waking hours. But Molly had long since given up trying to control Sherlock- not that she had ever managed it, or even expected to. But now she didn’t acknowledge the sudden fall of tiles from her bathroom walls, or the fact that Toby the cat’s fur had still not grown back. She just picked up her cat and hugged him, feeling upset at the feel of bare skin and bones under her hands, and ignored Sherlock as he watched her walk away.

 

But overall, really, what disturbed Molly about Sherlock’s stares was the fact that he seemed to be monitoring her, like an unexploded bomb, like she would fall and break. More than anything else, this made her angry.

 

‘I’m-I’m not weak!’, Molly said, one day, randomly and loudly. Sherlock looked up from his spot in her kitchen, the mug of blue goo bubbling dangerously under his hand.

 

‘I never said that you were’, Sherlock said, his voice and face neutral.

 

Molly opened her mouth, and closed it, knowing her face was bright red. She didn’t know why she had said anything in the first place. But the words had been bubbling inside her for a while, the fiery heat of them making it difficult to suppress.

 

‘I…’, Molly said. ‘You do. You did. Once. It’s why….’

 

Molly trailed off.

 

_It’s why….its the reason that you ever spoke to me. Because you thought I’d be easy to manipulate._

‘Molly?’, Sherlock said, sounding unsure. The blue goo was forgotten on the table, spilling over gloopily.

 

‘You know’, Molly started, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. ‘You’re not any better than Mycroft. Not-Not really.’

 

Sherlock was silent, and Molly stared down at her ruined table, trying to contain her tears. She knew her face and shaking body were betraying her, but she didn’t really care.

 

‘Molly-‘, Sherlock started, but Molly interrupted him.

 

‘How am-am I supposed to know what is good and what isn’t’, Molly said, her hands shaking. ‘When everyone around me is s-so messed up? _When I’m so screwed up_?’

 

Sherlock looked openly confused now, looking warily at her tears, standing stock still.

 

‘You’re not screwed up’, Sherlock said, his voice still annoying blank. ‘You’re the only one that is not, in this world’.

 

Molly looked up at his voice, noting the sudden look of realisation in his voice and expression, the conflicted expressions clouding his face. Sherlock was looking at with….with his _thinking_ face, she could tell, the one where she was reduced to nothing but a deduction, a conclusion to a series of puzzles.

 

‘Stop it!’, Molly said, her voice shrill. Sherlock blinked, and looked at her blankly.

 

‘I never intended to suggest that you are weak’, Sherlock said, and Molly stared. ‘I have always thought of you with….great esteem. You have been greatly useful to me. Please accept my apologies for undermining your person’.

 

Sherlock walked up to Molly, and touched her shoulder hesitantly, before walking away quickly.

 

Molly stood by herself in her small kitchen, staring at the blue goo.

 

 _Isn’t it funny how,_ Molly thought. _Isn’t it funny how much Sherlock sounded exactly like Mycroft, just then._

 

//

 

Five weeks after her talk with Sherlock, five weeks after the onset of a numbness that refused to leave, Molly found herself sometimes wondering if Mycroft, maybe, just maybe, sometimes thought about her.

 

Molly walked to work, as she usually did, and saw the CCTV camera in front of the hospital turn as she approached, trained directly on her. Molly looked down, ignoring the way a warm feeling passed through her.

 

As Molly entered the hospital, she looked at the reception desk, remembering the flowers, the beautiful flowers that Mycroft had sent her over the months, the first time anyone had thought to give her flowers. It was something so simple, really, but somehow Mycroft knew which flowers she liked, took the time to choose ones with a significant meaning. Looking at the bare reception desk now made her feel emptier than ever.

 

The empty feeling became more acidic as she walked past the post delivery room, remembering the way Mycroft had held her hands, had held her courage _in his hands_ , the way that the bomb hadn’t seemed to matter much, not when Mycroft was looking at her and seeing her for who she was. No one had never done that, and probably never would.

 

The images swam through her brain, a kaleidoscope of broken pictures, Mycroft’s warm eyes burning through her, the look he gave when he was asked something stupid, the way he looked when he had fallen asleep while they were looking after Sherlock, so soft and real.

 

Molly stood in her lab, and she blinked around her, feeling more confused than ever.

_There is no one to rescue us from our own mistakes._

 

//

 

‘You know, bitching about Mycroft was fun at first, but now it’s getting boring’, Anthea said, nursing her hot chocolate.

 

Molly knew Anthea was more annoyed about the fact that she had taken the assistant to the local Starbucks rather than somewhere more authentic and refined, but Molly didn’t care.

 

‘Why did- why did Mycroft betray Sherlock?’, Molly said, her hands around her coffee cup.

 

Anthea sighed.

 

‘I don’t understand any of it better than you do’, Anthea said, her expression tightening somehow. ‘I just clean up the mess afterwards.’

 

‘I want to understand’, Molly said, clearly. ‘But sometimes…I- I just don’t know what to think. H-He’s ignoring me. And I’m the one that is supposed to be angry’.

 

Anthea looked straight at Molly, their eyes connecting. Anthea looked tired, agitated somehow.

 

‘If you want Mycroft to apologise for who he is’, Anthea said. ‘You’ll be waiting for a long time. He’s an arrogant bastard, and that’s not going to change.’

 

Molly blinked, gaping at Anthea. ‘I didn’t-‘

 

Anthea sighed again, and put her hand on Molly’s arm.

 

‘I know,’ Anthea said. ‘It’s my fault.’

 

Molly felt even more confused than she had been before.

 

‘I d-don’t understand’, Molly said, frowning. ‘How is anything your fault?’

 

Anthea rubbed her temples.

 

‘I just thought…’, Anthea said, trailing off for a second. ‘I thought you would be different, you know? I thought you would be able to understand him when he did and said stupid things, maybe even help him.’

 

Molly looked at her incredulously, feeling numb.

 

‘Obviously I was wrong’, Anthea said. ‘My fault, obviously.’

 

Anthea dropped her cup on the table and left. She didn’t look back at Molly.

 

//

 

Mycroft sipped tea from his cup, fingering the delicate gold leaf design on the cup.

 

‘If you listened so carefully to everything I said’, Sherlock said, in a bored voice, ‘I would not have needed to get myself diagnosed as a sociopath.’

 

Mycroft put his cup down, and regarded his brother, wincing internally at the way Sherlock had swung his legs over the arm of Mycroft’s favourite chair in his office, the one residing close to the fireplace, but not so close to catch the cinders that inevitably flew from the fire. Mycroft sighed quietly, knowing that covertly bringing Sherlock to him rather than Mycroft going to Molly’s flat was a decision he may come to regret.

 

‘As glad as I am to hear that you acknowledge that the label is deceptive’, Mycroft said, crossing his legs. ‘I must say I am unsure to what you are referring.’

 

‘Surely it isn’t that hard for you to follow. I am simply saying that you are the source of all my anti-social behaviours’, Sherlock said, a disturbing smile on his face. ‘And also that you have also chosen to keep your distance from Molly as I asked.’

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

 

‘I am no fool, Sherlock’, Mycroft said. ‘I can see sense in advice even if it doesn’t originate from myself.’

 

‘I don’t give advice. I order, instruct, as you know’, Sherlock said. ‘I thought you did as well. You are getting soft in your old age.’

 

Mycroft suddenly felt twice his age.

 

‘Nevertheless, I thought you would be happy’, Mycroft retorted, picking up his cup and staring at the tea remains. ‘I have done as you asked.’

 

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, his hands assuming position under his chin. Suddenly he opened his eyes, and looked around the office.

 

‘Where is your cake?’, Sherlock said, looking around. ‘I thought you never drink tea without a scone or cupcake to increase your waistline a couple of inches everyday.’

 

Mycroft glared at his brother.

 

‘I do not have any here’, Mycroft said. ‘If you want cake, you’ll simply have to get it yourself.’

 

‘That’s the problem with being dead, brother’, Sherlock said, frowning at him. ‘People tend to frown on dead people walking around. Some red velvet, surely?’

 

‘None, Sherlock’, Mycroft said, with a warning tone.

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and Mycroft leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, savouring the silence.

 

‘What about carrot cake? The fattest of them all, you must have some hidden in a drawer somewhere.’

 

‘Sherlock!’, Mycroft reprimanded, opening his eyes.

 

‘What? You love carrot cake’, Sherlock said, innocently. Mycroft sighed, seeing the challenge in his brother’s eyes and refusing to rise to it.

 

 **Read:** Sherlock wants him to deny, to protest the benefits and success of his diet, for some very annoying and childish reason. **Plan of action:** do not humour him.

 

‘I love carrot cake’, Mycroft said, with a monotone voice. Sherlock looked surprised for a second, and then became thoughtful.

 

‘What about chocolate? You always-‘

 

‘I love chocolate cake’, Mycroft said, keeping the anger out of his voice, and stared into space.

 

‘Pretty much any type of cake,’ Sherlock said, curiously. ‘You love cake.’

 

‘Pretty much any type of cake’, Mycroft repeated, keeping his eyes on a spot on his wall. ‘I love cake.’

 

‘So you love Molly.’

 

‘I love-‘, Mycroft stared, and then back-tracked. He stared at Sherlock, who was looking at him curiously. ‘Sherlock! Desist, now!’

 

‘What?’, Sherlock said. ‘That much is obvious.’

 

Mycroft breathed in deeply, trying to remain calm.

 

‘Sherlock, if you will’, Mycroft said. ‘Please desist on this infernal topic.’

 

Sherlock groaned.

 

‘GOD’, Sherlock said, falling backwards in his chair. ‘I can’t wait until I can talk to John again. You’re so….boring.’

 

Mycroft stared at Sherlock.

 

‘Do not go thinking that it is a treat talking to you, brother mine’, Mycroft said. ‘If you would be so kind to keep out of trouble after your current mess, I would be much obliged.’

 

Sherlock frowned at Mycroft. ‘I never said you have to help me. I don’t need it.’

 

‘Feel lucky that I am not one to seek positive reinforcement’, Mycroft said. ‘You need help, and you will take it, willingly and without complaint. Not that you deserve it.’

 

Sherlock sulked in his chair, and Mycroft was reminded of the many times of their childhood when Sherlock had needed his help, be it with homework, bullies or, more horrifyingly, his addiction to drugs in his later years.

 

‘I don’t need your help’, Sherlock protested, grumbling. ‘But if you insist on coming with me to….it looks like you might be missed. For some reason.’

 

Mycroft sighed again, rubbing his temples.

 

‘Anthea is used to my many absences from office’, Mycroft said. ‘She would not-‘

 

‘I didn’t mean your assistant, you dolt,’ Sherlock said. ‘I meant Molly!’

 

Mycroft stared at Sherlock, ignoring the rush of blood through his veins, to his heart.

 

‘Dr Hooper will not miss me’, Mycroft said, knowing his voice sounded strange. ‘We have not talked in five weeks.’

 

‘I don’t know what you’ve been giving her while I was gone’, Sherlock said. ‘But if you think she will not miss your absence then your IQ has been sorely overestimated.’

 

Mycroft said nothing, his hands clammy.

 

_If you think she will not miss you…_

‘You pretend you’re the smart one, brother’, Sherlock said, testing him, poking at him. ‘Make your deductions.’

 

Mycroft was careful to keep his expression blank before looking at his brother.

 

‘I shall be leaving tomorrow’, Sherlock said, looking carefully at his chair. His tone was quiet but somehow pressing at the same time. ‘I shan’t be able to contact you or Molly in a while.’

 

Mycroft looked back down at his tea.

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft said, his expression dark and wondering.

 

//

 

_I thought you would be able to understand him when he did and said stupid things, maybe even help him._

 

Molly felt distracted, her mind buzzing and swimming, and she could feel her brain pounding in protest. She didn’t know why she felt so shaky, or so _guilty_ , so very guilty, because she knew she had nothing to be guilty for.

 

She let herself into her flat, feeling the day’s work bearing down on her bones, making her feel more tired than ever. As she opened the door, she walked head first into a large box, and pain struck her foot.

 

‘Ouch! What-‘, Molly said, looking around her living room, noting Sherlock sitting haphazardly on her sofa, his hair now straight and chestnut brown.

 

Molly gulped as she saw a box and a small packed bag at her feet.

 

‘Are you’, Molly said, swallowing the sudden….upset feeling churning in her stomach. ‘A-are you going somewhere?’

 

Sherlock didn’t look at her, and carried on scribbling something on a piece of paper.

 

‘Of course, Molly’, Sherlock said, lightly. ‘Places to go, Moriarty’s henchmen to annihilate’.

 

Molly blinked at him, feeling tears gathering at her eyes. She didn’t know why she felt so, so distraught, so upset at the idea of Sherlock leaving. While Sherlock had been nowhere near an ideal flat mate, or even a proper flat mate at all, but he had been there, had been company when she felt so very alone.

 

‘Oh’, Molly said, unsure of what to say. ‘O-okay.’

 

Sherlock looked up at her, his mouth closed in a thin line. Molly blushed hard as he stared at her, knowing when she was being deduced.

 

‘We need to finish the last of Moriarty’s network’, Sherlock said, carefully. He was looking at her oddly, she knew, and she tried not to weaken under it. ‘There’s….not a lot left, but it needs to be done. If I want to come back. If I want to let people know I’m alive.’

 

_If I want to tell John I’m alive._

 

It was unspoken between them, the whispered words inside her mind, that she knew was also in Sherlock’s mind. But something struck Molly, and refused to let go.

 

‘We?’, Molly said, her voice quiet and pathetic, as she knew it was. She looked down, trying, desperately trying to look like she didn’t already know what Sherlock was going to say.

 

‘Mycroft’, Sherlock said, confirming Molly’s suspicions, and looked at her carefully. ‘We’ll be going separately of course. I shall leave for Serbia, and Mycroft shall follow me in a few days.’

 

Molly nodded. She had known, from a long time ago, from when she had first met Mycroft, that the man would follow him, follow his brother to the end of the world, if he thought it would help.

 

 _Legwork,_ Molly remembered, and smiled at the memory of Mycroft’s distaste at the idea.

 

‘When-When are you leaving?’, Molly said, keeping her eyes on the floor.

 

‘I leave tomorrow,’ Sherlock said, a curiosity in his voice. ‘But, of course, that’s not what you’re asking.’

 

Molly clenched up, cold sweat running down her shoulders and back, and she looked up at Sherlock. The man seemed….resigned to something, still conflicted, but somehow…resigned. Molly couldn’t think of any other word for it.

 

‘Mycroft is a dangerous man’, Sherlock said, and Molly knew that the words were engrained in Sherlock’s mind, in her mind, since before she had even met Mycroft, properly. ‘Don’t forget that. If it comes between you and his beloved England, he will choose England.’

 

Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, she found herself staring into them, her own brown eyes widening.

 

_Sherlock was trying to protect her._

‘I-‘, Molly said, stumbling on her words. ‘I won’t.’

 

‘Well,’ Sherlock said, looking past her shoulder. ‘I suppose there is nothing more I can say.’

 

‘I-I guess so’, Molly said. A silence passed between them, and then suddenly, before she could stop herself, she leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s cheek.

 

‘Take care of yourself’, Molly said. ‘And, erm, Mycroft, too. If he needs it, I mean.’

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock smiled at her.

 

‘I’d rather throw Mycroft off a cliff than take care of him,’ Sherlock said, smirking.

 

‘Sherlock!’, Molly said, reprimanding him. Sherlock stared at her oddly, and then looked at his feet.

 

‘Go to bed, Molly’, Sherlock said. ‘I shall see you soon.’

 

In the morning, when the sun was up and announcing the beginning of the summer, Molly woke up to find her living room empty, of luggage and Sherlock.

 

She didn’t feel empty anymore. But her heart was beating hard, and she felt apprehensive, and all she could think was _Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft._

//

 

Anthea knocked on his door, fast and quick, before stepping through his door.

 

‘Not waiting for a response defeats the purpose of knocking’, Mycroft admonished, reading papers on his desk.

 

Anthea stopped for a second, and then carried on walking towards him.

 

‘Whatever you say, sir,’ Anthea said, putting a tea cup on his desk.

 

Mycroft looked at her, waiting. Anthea sighed.

 

 **Read:** Anthea wants to say something, but is thinking better of it.

 

‘I am to tell you that Sherlock has successfully reached Serbia. However, our contact was lost after he stepped down,’ Anthea said.

 

‘As was expected’, Mycroft said.

 

‘Yes, sir’, Anthea said. She stood on her spot. Mycroft put his pen down and looked up from his papers.

 

‘I am guessing Dr Hooper is alone?’, Mycroft said. Anthea looked at him strangely.

 

‘Yes’, Anthea finally said. ‘Should I initiate contact?’

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

 

‘No’, he said, shortly, and picked up his pen again.

 

 **Read:** the sudden fast movements of Anthea’s hands suggested anger and frustration. The want to speak, but inability to do so formally.

 

‘I need you to get a jet ready, if you will’, Mycroft instructed. ‘Make sure to come up with a plausible excuse for my absence while I am in Serbia. I trust I can leave you to deal with the Mayor after I leave tomorrow?’

 

‘Yes, sir’, Anthea said, obviously wanting to say more. Mycroft sighed.

 

‘Speak your piece, before it is too late’, Mycroft said, trying to stay calm.

 

‘I think you should talk to Molly’, Anthea said. ‘I know it’s none of my business, sir, but I think it would be in your best interest.’

 

‘It is none of your business’, Mycroft agreed, not missing Anthea’s glare. ‘And I do not wish to meet with Dr Hooper.’

 

‘Molly’, Anthea said, frustration bubbling over. ‘Her name is _Molly._ ’

 

‘As it may be’, Mycroft said. ‘However, I still do not wish to see her. Will that be all?’

 

Mycroft watched Anthea go, and swallowed hard, a lump obstructing his throat. He gripped his documents harder than he knew he should, and stared out of the window, watching the day become night.

 

//

 

Molly walked home from work, breathing in the night air, the streets still wet from the day’s rain. She pulled a hair band out of her hair, letting her hair loose out of her pony tail, enjoying the feel of the air between each tendril.

 

She made her daily tube journey, daydreaming on the train, her mind, as always faltering back to Mycroft. The longer she didn’t see him, speak to him, the more her thoughts fell towards him, and sometimes, just sometimes, she hated her own mind. She wondered if Mycroft had already left for Serbia, whether he was now hundreds and thousands of miles away from her, whether he had left without so much as a goodbye.

 

The thought depressed her more than she should have allowed it to, and she tried to stem it, to block it, the tiny shocks of pain seeping through nevertheless.  Molly gulped hard, swallowing her tears, and wished, prayed that she could stop- could stop _caring_ so much, could stop feeling so much.

 

She reached home, feeling numb, feeling something leaden stuck in her throat. Her flat was dark, her curtains still open from the morning when she left. For a second, she admired the moonlight filtering into through the nets she had hung on the windows, the way it streamed in like stardust. Then she noticed someone standing there.

 

‘What-‘, Molly said, walking backwards, and tripping on her chair, almost falling over it. The man at her window walked towards her slightly, and then stopped, watching her as she picked herself up.

 

She stood up properly, staring at him, feeling his piercing eyes looking back, staring at her with an intensity that almost scared her. There was a strange fear in his eyes, and Molly knew she could feel it too.

 

_Is that what we are now? We’re…afraid of each other?_

 

‘M-Mycroft?’, Molly said, her eyes wide.

 

//

 

A few hours earlier, Mycroft had been sitting in his car, without his assistant, without his umbrella, and without realising it, had instructed his driver to Molly’s flat.

 

The sensible thing to do would be for him to go home, to his home. He had a flight the next day, and no doubt, the following weeks would be difficult for him, mentally and physically, if he was to be of use to Sherlock. He hated, he _abhorred_ , undercover work, but there were worse things he could do for his brother, and this wasn’t one of them.

 

_If you think she will not miss you…_

Mycroft clenched his hands on his knees, the pain providing an alternative to thinking.

 

 _For once, brother,_ Mycroft thought, _mind your own bloody business. I am not a sentimental man._

_But you are,_ said mind-Sherlock, running circles in his mind, weaving doubts. _But you are. Absenting oneself from emotions is not the same as not having them._

//

 

‘M-Mycroft?’, Molly said, bewildered. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you in the dark? I can-‘

 

‘I would rather you didn’t’, Mycroft cut in, his voice rough and seeming like he hadn’t used it in a while. Molly moved away from her light switched, the darkness falling over her, confusing her more. Without the lights, she couldn’t see Mycroft’s face, nor the few emotions, if any, that were on it.

 

‘Okay’, Molly said, as carefully as she could, wondering why her hands were cold and shaking. ‘Why- Why are you here?’

 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but his shoulders were drooped, and he clenched and unclenched his hands several times.

 

‘I am expected to leave for Serbia tomorrow’, Mycroft said. ‘With a little good luck, Sherlock should return in a few months.’

 

Molly noted that Mycroft didn’t mention himself.

 

‘You will come back’, Molly said, pressing the idea, walking a little closer to Mycroft, slowly and carefully. ‘ _You_ will come back. W-Won’t you?’.

 

Molly could feel Mycroft’s eyes on her, burning her. She blushed into the darkness, and finally, she felt thankful for it.

 

‘Indeed’, Mycroft said, roughly. ‘I am not one for the sacrifice play.’

 

Molly said nothing, her hands stretched uselessly at her sides. Mycroft stepped closer to her window, away from Molly.

 

‘I am a terrible person’, Mycroft said. ‘I will never be a good one, and will probably do more terrible things in the future.’

 

Molly swallowed hard, wondering why Mycroft was doing this.

 

‘Don’t,’ Molly said, not sure what she meant. Mycroft turned back to her, his frustration obvious.

‘Don’t pretend that I am not’, Mycroft said, his voice louder than before, more furious. ‘I will not change.’

 

‘I didn’t-I didn’t think you would’, Molly admitted, staring down, unable to look at him even in the darkness. ‘Just-Just stop.’

 

Mycroft was silent, and he seemed to calm down a little.

 

‘If you know that’, Mycroft said, his voice sounding different. The sudden change made Molly look up again in surprise, and found him closer than before.

 

‘If you know that’, Mycroft said, and his hand was suddenly on her chin, on her cheek, around her ear and hair. ‘Why are you still here?’

 

Molly wanted to point out that they were in her home, and that if anyone should leave, it should be Mycroft. But she knew that wasn’t what he meant, and she didn’t _want_ him to leave, not when she was drowning in his words, in the way his touch was burning her skin.

 

‘I-I’, Molly said, her throat closing up. ‘I’m not afraid of you. I, erm, never have been.’

 

‘You should be,’ Mycroft said, firmly, his thumb rubbing a spot on her cheek, as though he would imprint it. ‘I have killed people. I have had people kill. I betrayed my own brother. I am not a good person, but you are.’

 

_But you are._

‘Because…Because you care’, Molly said, her voice croaking. ‘I know you say you don’t, and I know you don’t want to, but if you wanted me to leave then you would never have kissed me back.’

 

Mycroft stopped stroking her cheek, letting his hand fall, his eyes sharper than ever as the darkness lined his face like a mask.

‘That should never have happened,’ Mycroft said. ‘I-‘

 

‘Yes, it should have. I-I’m glad it did’, Molly said, her voice higher and louder, and she found she couldn’t control herself, the words pouring out of her mouth. She gripped his hands from where they had fallen and held them tightly.

 

Mycroft’s eyes darkened, matching the darkness surrounding them, but they became more pressing, more intense.

 

‘There is a gentlemen’s code that I live by’, Mycroft said, out of the blue. Molly could feel his breathes against hers, and without proper sight, it was all she could focus on.

 

‘I manipulate people in my occupation, in many ways’, Mycroft said. ‘I do not deny it. But I will never press my suit on the unwilling.’

 

It was a message, a code, a question and Molly found she couldn’t breathe. A heartbeat, his or hers, she couldn’t tell, and she knew what to say.

 

‘I’m not- that’s just it,’ Molly said, croakily. ‘I’m not unwilling.’

 

Suddenly Mycroft’s eyes flashed, and Molly blinked as she found herself closer to him than she had ever been before.

 

‘You think I am easily manipulated because- because I’m a good person’, Molly found herself saying. ‘I’m not, I’m really not. I’m not a mouse. I won’t be stepped on.’

 

Mycroft stared at her, and suddenly his hands are back on her, calloused hands on the back of her neck, scraping at the soft skin behind her ears. Molly found herself wondering what manual work Mycroft could have been doing to receive such calluses, and then he was kissing her, or she was kissing him, and she didn’t know when it had started anymore.

 

His lips were firm and warm against hers, and Molly was pulled into the kiss, and she sucked into it, breathing into it, and his hands weren’t on her neck anymore. His skin was burning against hers, and she touched his face in a way she could never have before, pulling him closer, and she remembered the mysterious, aloof man he had been when they had first met, and how those same words no longer had the same meaning as they did before.

 

‘Molly mouse’, Mycroft whispered, his voice rich and dark. He looked at her again, reading her breathes, her ascent like words and stories, and suddenly his hands were moving, falling down her body, like waterfall on a cliff edge.

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s all folks! Bet you weren’t expecting that ending *grins*. Anyways, as usual, please please review this fic- I treasure every comment I get, and it really does jet- fuel my inspiration and motivation for this story. Really, it’s the only reason this story is updated every week, on the dot.  
> Also- if you want to send me prompts, questions, or just stalk me in general, please follow my tumblr: http://bloglavictoire.tumblr.com/


	16. Put Your Hands On My Waist, Do It Softly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly shouldn't have to wait, because she was not weak, she wasn't, and Mycroft is NOT a solider. 
> 
> WARNING: Angst and time jump, as this chapter is the last featuring the hiatus. Rated M for sexual content in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright infringements intended. 
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello again! I’m so sorry this chapter is a day late- what can I say? Its been a horrible and strange week for me; those of you that follow me on tumblr will know that I had concussion for majority of the week, and so was pretty high on painkillers. Tie that with a broken laptop, a potential move of flats, giving up a job and magically acquiring a new one at the same time, my university lab project getting difficult….you get the picture. Difficult week.  
> Anyways, lets talk about this chapter- a few things to say:
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: this chapter is rated MATURE not EXPLICIT. I feel the need to point this out because….because, well, I can’t write smut. At least not a lot of it. What you have ahead of you is not an, as my beta put it, ‘engineering approach’ or, er, mechanical. Whatever, I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.  
> \- Please remember- Laura, in this story, is an OC I created- the receptionist at Molly’s place of work.  
> \- Please don’t think that I am making fun out of army soldiers or soldiers in war in this chapter, or the people left behind. Trust me, I wouldn’t do that, and it isn’t what I was trying to allude to.  
> \- Last thing about this particular chapter: please, please don’t kill me. This particular chapter is very angst-ridden, so if you’re allergic, maybe lay off it until the next chapter. I promise, I am not evil and this story is moving on….so it will get better. Pinky swear.
> 
> Okay, now the usuals:  
> This chapter was beta’d by the beautiful and fantastic Adalind, beta-extraordinare and my email-resident smut corrector. Thank you so much!  
> This particular chapter was named after the lyrics of ‘Gods and Monsters’ of the Lana Del Rey song. I recommend it, it is highly beautiful. 
> 
> Okay, that’s all I think…..other than this- FRIENDS AND FAMILY that read my stories (I know you are there, don’t pretend and hide, you guys are crap at it) I would be much obliged if you would stay away from this one. It’s my baby, and I don’t want you taking fun out of it and bringing it up in conversation in my real life. Thanks very much and please bugger off now.
> 
> From now on, this story is rated M, due to sexual content, graphic violence (not in this chapter), amongst other things. Thought I should warn you.

 

_Molly blinked out of her stupor, her muscles aching, her brain instantly buzzing. She frowned and stared at the figure at the end of her bed, bathed in the early morning daylight._

_‘Mycroft?’, Molly said, her voice full of sleep. She sat up, holding her duvet to her chest, feeling suddenly shy._

_Mycroft was fully dressed in last night’s clothes, and all Molly could think about was his body on hers, in hers, the feeling of his hands across her face, her body. She knew she was blushing, and breathing hard as his bright blue eyes ran down her body, looking pointedly at the parts covered by the blanket. He smirked at her, and Molly forgot how to breathe._

_‘Go back to sleep, Molly’, Mycroft said, his voice silky and smooth. ‘All will be well.’_

_Molly gulped, nodding._

_‘You…’, Molly said, a lump in her throat. ‘You have to go?’_

_Mycroft looked at her carefully, and Molly knew she would never grow bored of that look, the way he saw her, looked straight past her face and into her brain, into her heart._

_‘Yes’, Mycroft said, shortly.  ‘Sherlock needs me.’_

_Molly knew she could not stop him, and she bathed herself in the moment, in his gaze, in the touch of his hands as they ran down her cheeks and to her neck. The gold ring on his right hand was cold against her warm skin, her still naked skin, wandering dangerously close to the parts of her breast covered by the duvet._

_‘I will miss you’, Mycroft said, and Molly’s head snapped up, her heart leaping. He would miss her._

_And suddenly, Molly knew she would be okay. Maybe they could be….could be something. Maybe Mycroft would, could, love her as crazy as she knew the idea was. But he was there, and he hadn’t left without a word like she thought he would, like he didn’t care, like she was nothing. He cared, and he was there, and that was all that mattered._

_‘How-How long?’, Molly said, holding back tears. Mycroft held her face in his hands, his large and methodical hands, and Molly closed her eyes as she felt his lips on her eyes, on her nose._

_‘Not too long’, Mycroft said. ‘Never think that I will not come back.’_

_Molly nodded, opening her eyes._

_‘P-Please be careful’, Molly said. ‘And come back. For…for me.’_

_Please come back to me. I love you._

_Mycroft seemed to read the words in her head, and his eyes were bright, too bright._

_‘You are smarter than you portray yourself as’, Mycroft said. ‘You are stronger than this. Stronger than myself. You do not need me to live your life.’_

_‘But I want you in my life’, Molly insisted, tears now falling._

_Mycroft smiled, a light radiating from it, the outlines of his body suddenly fading, as though into the background._

_‘Mycroft?’, Molly said, confused, reaching out for him, and finding nothing there. ‘What is happening?’_

_Mycroft was becoming fainter, but still smiling._

_‘There is an extraordinary difference between being needed and wanted, Molly,’ Mycroft said. ‘You do not need me. I, however, both need you and want you.’_

_‘My-‘, Molly started, panicking as Mycroft was almost totally gone, a bright flash of light passing through the room._

_‘Remember that’, Mycroft whispered, and disappeared into a bright, white, light._

 

//

 

Molly woke up with a gasp, sweat dripping down her back, shivering at the sudden cold that seemed to consume her. She blinked out of her stupor, her muscles aching and her brain instantly buzzing.

 

‘Mycroft?’, Molly said into the darkness of the room. Her voice was breaking, struck with pain as she realised exactly how empty her room was.

 

‘My-‘, Molly tried, and gasped at the sudden pain, the strike of electric pain racking her body as she saw that she was in her bed alone, in an empty bedroom.

 

Mycroft’s clothes were gone, _Mycroft was gone._ Molly held the duvet to her chest, and almost fell out of bed as she stood up and ran out of the room.

 

Her entire flat was overcome by darkness, her front door resolutely closed. Molly turned on her living room light, and looked around. Tears poured down her face, and Molly couldn’t hold in the gasp of pain anymore, her vision blurring.

 

Every sign that Mycroft had ever been here, had ever been in her flat, was _gone_. The flowers that he had last given her, any creases on her sofa, her curtains at the window Mycroft had stood by. His umbrella, the one he had gifted her, his favourite, was _gone._ He had…had removed, had deleted himself out of her life, taking any memories of their time together with him.

 

Hot tears poured down her face, and Molly wasn’t strong, she wasn’t this strong. She sat on her cold floor, the wooden floorboards freezing under her legs, the duvet unravelling from her body.

It had been a dream, Molly knew. Mycroft was….he was Mycroft Holmes. No matter how much she kidded herself, lied to herself, she couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that he could ever….care for her. She didn’t know what….what last night was, but she had known then, knew now, that it was Mycroft saying goodbye.

 

But now she knew it wasn’t just Mycroft saying goodbye, it was him walking out of her life. This was Mycroft telling her that he couldn’t be what she….what she wanted.

 

_I am a terrible man._

She could not blame him, not really. He gave her….options. He told her what she was doing. She had no right to be….to be hurt, because she knew he was a terrible man, an impossible force of nature, something she would and could never be.

 

 _Mycroft was a terrible man,_ Molly thought, _but if she had fallen in love with him, what did that make her?_

//

 

‘Are you ready to leave, sir?’, Anthea said, her voice crisp, her hands clicking on her phone.

 

Mycroft looked at his jet, the reflection of his face in the window.

 

 **Read:** Stop looking like a broken man, leaving a life behind. _You are NOT a solider._

‘Of course’, Mycroft said, his voice blank. On his elbow he held his favourite umbrella, and for a moment he held it in his fingers. He found himself imagining Molly’s fingers tracing the same pattern on the material of the umbrella, and suddenly those fingers were running down his body, the image embedded in his mind in a way he knew could not be removed for a great length of time.

 

This was absurd, he knew, to be this affected by a woman that he had initially judged of little consequence. But now he could not deny there was something, not with the imprints of her nails on his back, the taste of her skin on his lips. Her face was a million and two shards of glass in his mind, slowly being fused into a large mural in his mind palace, covering several walls.

 

_You are not a sentimental man._

Mycroft walked onto the plane, and looked out of the window, at his assistant, who was staring at him from the ground. She knew, and Mycroft found he did not mind. Anthea would remain behind, keep an eye on Molly, would reprise her role as her lab assistant after his return, because he knew he could not approach Molly himself.

 

As the plane took off, Mycroft’s mind wandered in a way it was usually forbidden, acid rolling in his stomach as he thought about Molly waking up on her own, in a life in which he didn’t exist.

 

He closed his eyes, and his mind wandered to the one place he wished he could _delete._

 

//

 

Molly gasped as Mycroft moved down her body, applying method to art. He knew her….her pleasure points, so to speak, could see them in her every day life, the spots that her hands always went to when she was stressed, when she was worried. Mycroft nipped at the skin behind her ears, grazed his teeth across Molly’s collar bone, and it was all he could not do to devour her skin right there, suck hard on the pulse he could feel on her neck.

 

‘Mycroft-‘, Molly began, and even in the darkness, Mycroft could see the wideness of her eyes, the glassy quality of lust. Desire ran down his body, heat rising in his belly and his thighs, his entire body molten hot in a way he had not felt in years.

 

‘Let me’, Mycroft said, and he pulled Molly into her bedroom, because he did not believe in dallying around, wasting precious minutes on etiquette that did not have a place in moments such as these.

Molly was beneath him now on the bed, and moonlight was pouring in through her closed, thin curtains. There was still darkness, and this was all that was protecting Mycroft.

 

_She is still in love with Sherlock._

Mycroft knew he was a terrible person, he did not deny it- he revelled in it. He was selfish, he was greedy, because he knew Molly was still in love with another man, with his younger brother, but he _would have her_ here and now because it was all he could have, and he would have it.

 

He breathed deeply, and knew Molly was watching him, so small under him, so open to manipulation and everything that had made him as powerful as he was. He could do anything he wanted now, and she would let him for reasons Mycroft still did not understand. He would not pretend to understand emotions, especially those of a woman like Molly.

 

He carefully opened her shirt, taking care with the buttons, only to find Molly pulling at his hands, her own hands shaking around his, rapidly lifting material over her head, taking off all the clothing underneath along with the shirt. Mycroft froze.

 

‘Mycroft?’, Molly said, her voice small and laboured, her chest and stomach heaving, sucking him in.

 

Arousal poured down his body, and he knew Molly could feel it, her legs wrapping around him as she wanted to pull at his clothes, struggling.

 

He couldn’t really see her, not in the dark. The slight outlines of her breasts distracted him, the beauty of her profile enhanced by the sliver of light coming from the windows. He could not see her, but light was not an option.

 

Mycroft stilled Molly’s hands, who whimpered, the sounds passing straight down his body. He pressed his hands to her face, and began to kiss down her body, the feeling of her skin on his face not enough, even as his lips ghosted her breasts.

‘Mycroft!’, Molly squeaked, and Mycroft was suddenly pulled upwards. Molly’s eyes were fiery in the moonlight, blazing with a fire that surprised Mycroft. At this very moment, Mycroft could not recognise her as the woman he had once thought of as a mouse, as weak. Right this moment, sitting on the bed beneath him, clad in only her lower garments, Mycroft could not wish anything more than that he could see her properly, profile her in his mind palace.

 

‘Your…Your clothes’, Molly said, breathing hard. ‘I can’t….take them off.’

 

Mycroft knew she must be blushing, the moonlight reflecting some of the darkening of her skin, and the hairs on his arms prickled as he realised the blush of her cheeks were darkening her neck, her chest.

 

Therefore, Mycroft obliged.

 

//

 

Molly was alone. One month passed, and Molly was so very alone, so alone that she felt it in her breath, in her clothes, felt it stuck to her like second skin. She couldn’t remove it, nor did she want to because, really, being alone was all that was protecting her, now.

 

Being alone meant that she could cry in her sleep, could be numb in her waking hours, do whatever she liked, and have it been nothing, and not even care.

 

Two months passed, and Molly realised Anthea wasn’t going to pick up her phone, no matter how many times Molly called her. Molly was really alone, she really was, because now she didn’t even have her best friend. The thought crawled into her mind, and hurt even more, despite the fact that Molly didn’t think she could be in anymore pain.

 

She should move on, she knew. After two months of radio silence from both Sherlock and….him, she knew she should move on. But Molly could not wipe away the idea in her head, the idea of being a woman waiting for her husband in the army, the solider that loved her and would want her to wait.

 

Molly hated this image. She didn’t want to wait, and Mycroft was not a solider. She was….she was better than this, better than waiting for someone who wouldn’t care for her, and yet here she was, drowning all the same.

 

He would never come back for her.

 

Molly’s eyes burned, and she scrunched her hands on her knees, her hands clammy and her nails embedded in the skin of her palm. Her hair swayed as she sat on the grass and stared straight in front of her.

 

She was at Sherlock’s….Sherlock’s grave, and she sat next to his headstone, her face reflected on the shine of the black stone.

 

This was all she had, the only evidence that everything she had been through had happened, that somewhere out there Sherlock and Mycroft _were alive,_ because he definitely wasn’t here, rotting under this soil. This….this was the place she had first properly met Mycroft, his eyes finding her in the mourning crowds, the piercing blue of his stare still not gone from her mind.

 

He had seen her, and she couldn’t forget that. No matter what she did, no matter how much she told herself to _stop it, stop caring,_ she couldn’t forget it.

 

‘I-I miss you’, she said to Sherlock’s gravestone.

 

She told herself she was talking to Sherlock, because somewhere along the equation, Sherlock had become the shadow of the man that she had fallen in love with, rather than the other way around.

 

//

 

Molly wrapped herself around Mycroft, as tightly as she could, wishing, wishing that the next day wouldn’t come. Mycroft’s smell was surrounding her, overwhelming her, the scent of his cologne, dark, rich and musky filling her nostrils, filling her lungs, as well as the smell of him underneath all the clothes.

 

He was unwrapped now, like a present only for her. Mycroft was one of those few men that managed to somehow look more powerful without their clothes, unafraid of their flaws and faults. Mycroft kissed the scar on her stomach from the appendectomy she had had as a child, laving it with his tongue, admiring the stretch of skin that was so different from the rest of her body. Molly, in return, stroked the flesh of his stomach, the muscle that was there now, but she knew had not always been, stretch marks slightly outlining his sides, indicating crash diets and desperate weight loss. She ran her hands through the ginger hairs on his chest, that he so protectively concealed, the pale clusters of freckles on his thighs.

 

His hands were under her now, cupping her bottom, pulling her together to him until they were moulded together. Molly revelled in the way that they seem to fit, his head and shoulders looming over, but snapping into place with her body like a puzzle.

 

‘Molly?’, Mycroft said, and Molly snapped out of her daze, out of the haze of….arousal, she supposed, because it was hard to describe how it felt to be this close to Mycroft, to be wrapped around him like she belonged with him, in a way she hadn’t before.

 

He looked into her eyes, and even in the dark, the brightness of them seeped through, burning her with the lust and desire she could glimpse in his eyes.

 

‘I want…’, Molly said, and found her mouth filling with saliva, making it hard to speak. ‘Turn the lights on. First. Please.’

 

Mycroft froze, his hands moving away from her, but Molly stopped him by pulling her legs around him properly, gathering her to him, his arousal trapped between them, so he couldn’t deny his want for her. She felt powerful like this, strong and larger than life in that she could make a man like Mycroft want her like this, and she knew he would do anything she asked him now.

 

‘Please’, Molly insisted. Mycroft hesitated, something he never did, and Molly wondered what he was so afraid of.

 

Mycroft moved up her bed towards her lamp, swiftly, and from the sound of a flickering switch, Molly knew, somehow knew, that his hands were trembling, which confused Molly even more.

 

 The lights switched on, and suddenly all Molly could see was Mycroft lit up with colours on his body she had never seen- the red of his cheeks, the ginger of chest hair, he paleness of his upper arms, the darkness of his-

 

‘Say my name’, Mycroft said, suddenly, his voice rough. His eyes were dilated, Molly saw, and she suddenly felt shy as she realised he was looking her up and down, unabashedly eying her breasts, his glaze moving slowly down. His normal gentlemanly, almost Victorian behaviour slide to the side, leaving only the primal man that Molly knew had to have been there, that was so evident now.

 

‘Wh-‘, Molly started, losing her breath, as Mycroft pushed her down with a roughness she didn’t expect, looming over her.

 

‘Say my name’, Mycroft said, his hands methodically parting her thighs. Molly gasped as his hands slid upwards.

 

‘ _Mycroft_ ’, Molly gasped.

 

//

 

_You are strong. You are stronger than me._

It had been three months, and now early autumn, when Molly finally decided to move on.

 

The wound was still there, and if she closed her eyes, she could still see Mycroft beneath her eyelids, against her skin. But she couldn’t live like this, she couldn’t, because it would kill her. The near constant pain of being…left behind, forgotten, unwanted- she didn’t know which one it was- was too much to bear anymore, and all Molly wanted was to stop drowning in this loneliness, in this emptiness that was slowly swallowing her.

 

She needed more time, and most of all she needed a _friend._

 

Molly felt abandoned.

 

So when Molly went to work one day, ignoring the CCTV camera that always, always moved to look at her when she came close (she supposed this was Anthea now; the thought made her mad, the idea that the woman would still be watching her, but obviously didn’t care about her enough to actually come and….and _talk_ to her), she walked to the reception, looking for Laura.

 

‘Molly!’, Laura said, putting down her coffee and walking up to Molly, cheerful as always. ‘No flowers from the mysterious man today, I’m afraid.’

 

The words cut at Molly, and she had to stop herself from pointing out that it had been a long while since she last had flowers.

 

‘Yes’, Molly said, absent-mindedly, because being present-minded when she was reminded of Mycroft would just hurt too much.

 

Laura looked at her expectantly.

 

‘So’, Laura said. ‘What can I do you for?’

 

Molly hesitated.

 

_You are stronger than this._

‘You mentioned you had a friend’, Molly said, finally. ‘Someone you wanted me to met…..Tom?’

 

Laura’s answering smile and brightened face made Molly’s decision easier. She was on the right track, she knew. She had to be.

 

There was no point waiting for someone that would never come back for her.

 

//

 

**_Please come back._ **

_Mycroft had her pushed against an autopsy table, and Molly realised she was in her lab. Mycroft was so close that she could smell him, feel the heat radiating from his body. She strained her neck to look up at him from this position, catching his eyes as he looked at her intensely._

_‘Please come back’, Molly said, feeling broken. Mycroft smirked, holding her chin in his thumb and index finger._

_‘My dear Molly’, Mycroft said, his voice deep and rumbling._

_Suddenly, they were in Molly’s bed, in the lamp-lit room, and he was over her, inside her, and Molly was gasping his name as he swallowed her breathes into his mouth._

_‘My dear Molly’, Mycroft repeated, his voice a whisper. ‘What makes you think I would ever come back for you?’_

_Molly froze, horror filling her as she saw pity in his eyes, ridicule in his expression and suddenly she knew- he didn’t care about her, he was using her, he had even admitted it and she had consented, this was nothing other than a thank you for saving Sherlock-_

 

Molly woke up, gasping and crying silently. She shook hard and then froze as Tom moved from his side of the bed.

 

‘Molls?’, Tom said, sleepily. ‘Wha’s happening?’

 

Molly breathed deeply, and felt ashamed at the slight arousal she had experienced from the dream. She had moved on now, so why was _she still thinking about him?_

 

‘N-Nothing’, Molly said. ‘Just a bad dream.’

 

//

 

Tom looked at her expectantly. Molly stared at him.

 

‘But…’, Molly said, looking down at him. ‘We’ve only been dating for 3 months.’

 

Tom looked up at her from his spot on the ground, kneeling on one knee and holding up a ring to her. Molly felt cold, and wished, wished she could feel excited, feel anything other than dread.

 

‘I know’, Tom breathed. ‘But….But I love you. And there’s no point waiting for something that’s going to happen anyway, is there?’

 

The phrasing of that sentence tore at Molly, and her mind, without her will, went backwards, to before Tom, before Molly had accepted her broken mind as a given state that she would have to live with.

 

_You are stronger. Stronger than me._

Molly closed her eyes, mentally wiping her mind, wiping bright blue eyes away from her memory.

 

‘O-okay’, Molly said, tears forming in her eyes. ‘Y-Yes. I will.’

 

//

 

Molly sat on the grass next to Sherlock’s gravestone. She pulled away a few weeds, cleaning the headstone the best she could.

 

‘Tom will never be him’, Molly said, her voice clear and open in the cold air. There was no one there, no one but her and the many dead people buried beneath her, alone and cold. But it was okay, because dead people had never bothered her, never gave her reason to complain.

 

She had spent so long tending to the dead that she had forgotten what it was like to get on with the living.

 

‘I do love him, Tom, I mean’, she told the gravestone. ‘He’s….lovely. He’s kind….he loves me.’

 

The cold air made Molly shiver, but she didn’t care.

 

‘He’ll never be exactly what I want him to be’, Molly said. ‘But maybe what…what I want is wrong. What I’ve wanted has never-never been good for me. I just….’

 

Molly wiped a tear away, and pulled the grass around her.

 

‘I just want to be _loved’_ , Molly said, knowing her voice was whiny. ‘Is that….is that too much to ask?’

 

Molly looked down.

 

‘M-Maybe I should have waited,’ Molly said. ‘Just-Just to see how he…he would see me after he comes back. But he already said…I know he would never love me, not how I…not how I l-love him. Loved him. But _what if he doesn’t come back?’_

 

The words were swept up in the wind, the rush of ferocious air freezing Molly’s tears.

Molly wiped them with her sleeve.

 

‘It-It’s okay’, Molly said, as though she was convincing someone other than herself. ‘I’m fine. Really.’

 

//

 

_Did you miss me? SH._

_Time to come home, brother. MH._

_I see you are rather eager, Mycroft. Missing someone?  SH._

_Don’t be absurd, Sherlock. I am simply done being your personal manservant. I have a country to run. MH._

_Do you think she has waited for you? SH._

Mycroft read the last text message, and sighed heavily, with the air of man that had suffered for a great length of time.

 

‘Why do you insist on texting me when we are in the same car?’, Mycroft said, frustrated, and turned to the seat opposite him.

 

Sherlock smirked at him.

 

‘I have to say,’ Sherlock said. ‘You used to be better at hiding your expressions. You’re all….open now. It’s very annoying.’

 

Sherlock was looking at him, and suddenly, his face became slightly weary. Mycroft swallowed, unnoticeable to anyone but Sherlock, and he looked at Anthea, who had been staring at him the entire car journey.

 

Mycroft looked away, watching London appear slowly in front of them as the car moved on.

 

‘Well?’, Mycroft said, keeping his voice steady.

 

Anthea hesitated, and even Sherlock had stopped fidgeting.

 

‘She….’, Anthea said, and Mycroft could feel her stare on the back of his head. ‘She’s engaged, sir.’

 

Mycroft closed his eyes.

 

//

_Molly was breathing hard in his ear, and he could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his own chest, both of their hearts beating in tandem. Mycroft felt almost overwhelmed, but refused to show it, because becoming emotional, even an intimate act, was more than Mycroft could handle at the moment._

_He moved slowly inside her, the heat burning them both, flaws and strengths becoming one._

_‘I-I love you,’ Molly suddenly gasped, her hair in a wild array on the stark white bed covers, her hands gripping into his back._

_Mycroft nearly froze, but stopped himself at the last minute. He felt a rush of something unlike anything he had felt before, and it sensitized the moment even more, his heart beating harder, and he found himself wanting her even though she was already there._

_Mycroft kissed her hard, extracting another whimper, and breathed her in, wishing, like a fool, that tomorrow would never come._

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! Before you get the pitchforks out- I did warn you. What did you think was going to happen, with 5 chapters left???? But anyways, we’re moving onto a mollcroftian series 3 now, and I’m very excited. Its been nice writing about the hiatus, because I could make up just about anything….but I enjoy a challenge, and turning series 3 into a molly and Mycroft story will be nothing short of that. I promise that this story isn’t just angst, even though it seems like it now- I’ve never been one for sad endings, there are enough of those in real life so….please don’t run away. 
> 
> As always, please, please comment and let me know what you think – it really does encourage the plot bunny and I can’t even tell you how much it has helped with this story to know that I have people backing me. I have met some lovely people along the way, and for that, I love this story all the more.
> 
> If you want to give me prompts, ask questions etc, follow me on tumblr at: http://bloglavictoire.tumblr.com/


	17. Will You Follow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in Series 3 events. Molly is trying to move on, Sherlock is trying to move away from it all, and Mycroft realises that, like a game of chess, he needs to make a move. 
> 
> Spoilers for 3x01: The Empty Hearse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright infringements intended. 
> 
> Author's Notes: Hello again! I feel like I’ve been longer than I actually have. For those of you that don’t follow me on tumblr, this story was stalled for two weeks because of my crazy real life, but all is well now. We’re back to being updated every week!
> 
> Anyways, a few things to say about this chapter- this chapter marks the beginning of series 3 in this story, and has spoilers for series 3, episode 2: The Empty Hearse. While this chapter didn’t turn out the way I expected, there are several reasons it is the way it is- one, I am setting the scene and change of pace for series 3, in which I will need to adhere to actual events unlike in the hiatus. When I say I will be using series 3, I mean I will be working around the gaps in it rather than use actual onscreen events- because, boy, where there a lot of gaps to use. I hope you don’t hate this.  
> Also, I used to play a lot of chess, until I didn’t anymore. I have forgotten mostly everything about it. So please don’t take any of the chess tactic stuff in this to be like the real game. Creative writer license, if you will.
> 
> Also- I hate this- but the number of chapters is increasing. Yes, that’s right. No one is allowed to say ANYTHING. Just don’t. I’m not sure by how many, but most likely 1 or 2, no more than that. There are reasons for this, which I will explain at the end of this chapter. 
> 
> I can’t think of anything else I need to say…..other than, please be patient with me. Really. Now, with the usuals:  
> \- This chapter wasn’t actually beta’d, as my beta is on holiday. So I did it, probably not well, so please forgive any grammatical errors, and let me know.  
> \- This chapter was named after the lyrics of the song by Mariana’s Trench, called ‘No Place Like Home’.
> 
> On with the story!

Mycroft looked at his little brother. Playing chess with his ten year old brother was decidedly more entertaining and challenging than doing so with his fellow university students, even those whom had been deemed to be ‘intelligent’ by their academic records.

 

Academic records were proof of nothing, Mycroft had long understood.

 

Sherlock moved a chess piece, and grinned at Mycroft triumphantly. Mycroft raised his eyebrow and sighed at his sadly illogical brother, who clearly had much to learn about the art of chess.

 

Years later, Mycroft realised that after this particular game, both he and Sherlock would do nothing other than apply the tactical game to their actual lives, an attempt to besiege and overthrow each other. Whether they would ever reach a checkmate was yet to be seen.

 

Mycroft held his queen in his hand, placing it next to Sherlock’s king. Sherlock groaned.

 

‘You never let me win’, Sherlock whined. ‘You can’t handle losing, you just can’t!’

 

Mycroft smirked.

 

‘Admit it, Sherlock’, Mycroft said, smiling. ‘I am the smart one’.

 

Sherlock scowled, and pulled Mycroft’s queen out of his brother’s grasp.

 

‘You may win’, Sherlock said, his voice high and snarky. ‘But I’m not giving your queen back.’

 

Mycroft stared at his brother’s immaturity. Surely, at the ripe age of ten, Sherlock should be past such childishness.

 

‘Oh dear’, Mycroft said, his voice quietly sarcastic. ‘Then I’m afraid the queen and king are forever doomed to stay apart.’

 

Sherlock glared at him.

 

‘Yes’, Sherlock said, his chin held high. ‘Your queen is stupid. Just like you.’

 

‘Nonsense’, Mycroft said. ‘Your king is incapable of protecting themselves from power. I believe that makes him the inadequate one.’

 

Several years later, Mycroft replayed that chess game back in his head.

 

_Mycroft could sense John’s awe before he could see it, the man’s amazement at being in Buckingham Palace obvious as daylight._

_‘….Maybe we’re here to meet the queen?’, John said, his voice questioning and excited._

_Sherlock, Sherlock, his exasperating imbecile of a brother, sat next to John in a bed sheet. Sherlock looked straight at Mycroft, his eyes gleaming, and for a short second, Mycroft felt a chill in his stomach._

_‘Oh, apparently yes’, Sherlock said, his eyes still on Mycroft. John began to laugh and Sherlock joined him a moment later._

**_Your queen is stupid. Just like you._ **

****

_Mycroft breathed deeply._

_So. He was the queen._

****

//

 

Molly was frowning at a chess book, holding it up to her computer screen. She frowned harder, confused.

 

‘Molly?’

 

Molly squeaked loudly, and jumped up from her seat, dropping both the book and her computer mouse. Sherlock looked at her from his spot at her office door.

 

‘S-Sherlock!’, Molly said, still shaking from the fright. Her heart was pumping hard and she blushed, but strangely, it wasn’t Sherlock’s presence that was doing that. It was funny, really, how she was so used to Sherlock being _able_ to do that, that now her brain was confused when she didn’t react to him that way anymore.

 

_Tom isn’t able to do that, either._

Molly decided to stop that thought before it started.

 

‘W-What are you doing here?’, Molly said, hovering next to her computer, and picking up the book. ‘I was, erm,-‘

 

‘Working?’, Sherlock supplied, helpfully and unhelpfully, looking pointedly at her book.

 

He walked over, and they both glanced at her computer screen. The silence was long, and Molly could feel herself getting redder by the second.

 

‘Kitty chess?’, Sherlock said, scrunching his nose and staring at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. ‘Really, Molly?’

 

‘I wanted to learn chess!’, Molly said, her voice high and indignant. ‘And, well, this version is more…fun. I, erm, like cats.’

 

Sherlock stared at her. ‘I gathered.’

 

Molly cleared her throat, and fiddled with the book.

 

‘Why are you here? I mean,’ Molly said. ‘I heard you were back, but-‘

 

‘But you didn’t come to see me’, Sherlock said, swiftly. ‘Why, Molly, I am wounded, truly.’

 

Molly’s eyes widened, and then she looked up at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was smirking down at her, his expression full of mirth. Molly felt like hitting him, and tried to remember when Sherlock had become so….free. He could walk in the open now, Molly thought, and she was glad, glad that it was all _over._ She could breathe now, he could breathe now- but something had changed, she could tell.

 

‘I was going to!’, Molly said. ‘It’s just- work, you know.’

 

Sherlock nodded, and Molly didn’t know whether she was more surprised that he was agreeing so easy, or that he didn’t correct her. He could deduce her in a second, she knew, as he always had, never faltering to think about whether he was embarrassing her or not. The unsaid words lingered in the air, bittersweet and as sore as an open wound.

 

_You won’t come and see me because you might walk into Mycroft._

‘Of course’, Sherlock said. They were silent again, and Molly squirmed slightly, unsure of why Sherlock was actually here.

 

‘So, er’, Molly said, awkwardly. ‘How are you settling in?’

 

Sherlock looked at her, his eyes full of- well, full of something, and Molly knew that she had hit the reason he was here. Thankfully.

 

‘I do not need to settle’, Sherlock said, almost spitting it out. ‘Baker Street was my home before, and it is now. There is no need to settle anywhere because I never truly left.’

 

 _But you did,_ Molly thought _, you did and for a long time._

But Molly nodded, because an agitated Sherlock, no matter how much he seemed to have mellowed, was still a dangerous Sherlock.

 

‘How is…John?’, Molly said, still feeling awkward. Sherlock’s eyes flickered slightly, and he looked down.  And with a sudden clarity and crash of thoughts, Molly felt like she could finally see- the cast down eyes, the fidgeting fingers and reproachful face- Sherlock was….

 

Sherlock was _hurting._ It didn’t matter why it was, or who and what had done it, it still managed to make Molly gasp. Molly had known Sherlock for, for years, and she had never once seen him hurt by anything, not really, and yet here he was in her office, obviously upset in a way that no one would actually be able to see, until they could.

 

‘What happened, Sherlock?’ Molly said, feeling oddly afraid.

 

Sherlock sat down on her chair, uninvited, and the action calmed her down a little- this was Sherlock, this was his normal behaviour- going where he had not been asked.

 

‘I said that I was sorry’, Sherlock said, looking exasperated and not unlike a ten year old.

 

Molly faltered.

 

‘To John?’, Molly said, sitting on her desk. Sherlock looked at her like she was stupid, which she knew she was being, because who else could Sherlock be talking about?

 

‘Yes’, Sherlock said. ‘He says that there is no good excuse for disappearing for 2 years without contact. I said that I beg to differ and could supply several reasons.’

 

‘And what did he do?’, Molly said, blinking at this new version of Sherlock, a version of Sherlock she had never personally seen- one that was younger than his year and that seemed so tired internally.

 

‘He slammed the door in my face,’ Sherlock said. ‘In the last few days, I have received three punches in the face, several takes of verbal abuse, a glass thrown at my head and now a slammed door. How many of these things will need to occur before he forgives me?’

 

Molly looked at Sherlock, and then looked away.

 

‘I- I don’t know why you think that I’d know’, Molly said. ‘But maybe just give him some time to cool down, maybe-‘

 

‘For example, how long is it until you forgive Mycroft?’, Sherlock said, pulling his head off her chair, his voice casual. ‘Maybe then I can extrapolate the data to fit John’s behavioural discretions and be able to achieve a statistical estimate of the amount of time it will take.’

 

‘Sherlock!’ Molly squeaked, and felt her face go on fire. ‘I didn’t- what?’

 

‘You aren’t talking to Mycroft’, Sherlock said, as if explaining to a child. ‘Or he isn’t talking to you. Either way, you both aren’t talking to each other, therefore one of you is angry with the other. Gathering the amount of things Mycroft has done in recent events that would likely upset you, I understand you are the angered and he is the angerer.’

 

Molly stared at Sherlock, feeling a stab in her chest, and realised that Sherlock hadn’t even realised the minefield that he was entering.

 

But then again, Sherlock had never been one to beat around the bush.

 

A lump formed in her throat and she willed the stabbing pain in her chest to go away, forming a barrier around the- the name, the one person she had tried hard, so hard, to make sure she didn’t think about anymore.

 

‘I’m not angry’, Molly said, as fast as possible. ‘I don’t- I don’t want to talk about it.’

 

‘But Molly’, Sherlock said, looking confused. ‘You very obviously are.’

 

‘I am not John’, Molly said, suddenly, and saw Sherlock flinch ever so slightly. She hadn’t meant to say it so harshly, but this needed to stop.

 

‘I’m not…’, Molly said. ‘I’m not angry.’

 

_No, I just miss him. Like I would miss breathing._

 

Sherlock frowned at her. ‘But-‘

 

‘John will forgive you. Promise’, Molly said. Sherlock closed his mouth, and glared at her computer screen.

 

‘He won’t come to crime scenes with me’, Sherlock grumbled.

 

‘Then….go by yourself for a bit. Find someone temporary. I don’t know’, Molly said, feeling slightly annoyed. She wasn’t sure why Sherlock chose her to open up to now, after years of- of ignoring her, not _seeing_ her. She wasn’t bitter, she wasn’t angry, but she wasn’t willing to be used, not again and not now.

 

Sherlock smirked at her, and then looked away, hands now in his coat pockets.

 

‘Your king is stupid’, Sherlock said, looking at the chess board on the screen, an odd look on his face. ‘Move your queen to E4. Although she certainly deserves to stay apart from her king, I certainly don’t have time for this.’

 

Sherlock stalked out of her office, and Molly watched him walk away. She looked down at her screen.

 

‘What?’, Molly said, confused.

 

//

 

Sherlock has come back, and as Molly expected, so did most of London’s criminals. Within a few days, Sherlock was back in his element, even if he did seem slightly off, and Molly could see the change in him, the change since he fell, better than anyone else.

 

In the last few days, Sherlock had seemed to attach himself to her, dragging her along to cases in a way that made Molly physically feel John’s absence. She saw Sherlock become absorbed in a crime, marvelled in it in a way she never really noticed before, because before she had been too busy not _seeing_ him, but telling herself she was _in love_ with him.

 

Molly knew there had to be some irony in the fact that falling in love with someone made you truly forget what they were, forget what they could be. Molly wondered if being in love truly did mean not being able to see someone properly- because if that was the case then…then maybe she didn’t want to be in love.

 

‘Its bad form to think of one’s self as not in love’, Sherlock said, suddenly. ‘Especially when one is engaged.’

 

Molly sat in what she knew Sherlock was thinking of as ‘John’s’ chair, and jumped when he spoke.

 

‘Sherlock!’, Molly said, holding her head, as though trying to keep in her thoughts. ‘Stop-Stop it!’

 

‘You think too loud’, Sherlock said, swinging his legs over the arm of his chair, violin in hand. The melody he played was long, whining, and eerie.

 

Molly could also see the disappointment in Sherlock’s face when he started talking, and he realised that she wasn’t John.

 

‘D-Do you’, Molly said, above the music. ‘Do you miss him?’

 

Sherlock stopped playing, abruptly.

 

‘I don’t know what you mean’, Sherlock said, dithering for a second, before resuming playing.

 

Molly swallowed, and looked around the room, feeling empty. Just her and Sherlock, two people who were more broken then they let on. Molly would deny it to the world, but she couldn’t trick herself- she knew she wasn’t…there was something missing. They were supposed to be _happy_ ; Sherlock was back, alive and well, their schemes had worked, Moriarty was finally gone. They were safe, everyone was safe. But now Molly was sitting in a chair with a John-shaped hole in it, with a fiancé at home that she avoided more than sought, feeling more imprinted on by a man she had had her hands on once than the man she had agreed to marry.

 

‘I do love Tom’, Molly said, not looking at anything in particular. ‘I do.’

 

Molly braced herself for cutting words, for barbed insults that would be all too true, and more than she could bear. But she knew she would relish the pain, because, _because_ she knew Sherlock never spoke anything but the truth.

 

Sherlock blinked at her.

 

‘Okay’, he said, looking back at his violin.

 

Molly blinked at Sherlock.

 

‘O-Okay?’, Molly said, incredulous.

 

Sherlock sighed, looking bored.

 

‘As much as having to think about my brother when I don’t have to sickens me’, Sherlock said. ‘Tell me one thing.’

 

Molly stared at Sherlock questioningly, who sat up properly, violin abandoned.

 

‘Why are you here?’, Sherlock said.

 

Molly breathed, and looked around the room.

 

‘I-‘, Molly said, her voice catching. ‘I-I’m helping you. Like you wanted. Your-You need an assistant.’

 

_An audience. Both of you do._

‘Molly’, Sherlock said, and Molly could hear a change in his voice. ‘Mycroft knows you are here. If he wanted to talk to you, he would have come. There is no point in waiting for him here.’

 

Sherlock’s word pricked Molly’s skin, and she could feel the blood oozing into her throat, into her brain.

 

‘It’s none of your business’, Molly said, her voice coming out as a whisper. ‘ _And I am not waiting for him._ ’

 

Before she could say anything stupid, like she knew she would, or start doing something even stupider such as crying, Molly walked out, making sure to slam the door behind her. It didn’t work as the door catched before hitting the doorway, so it closed softly.

 

Just to spite Sherlock, Molly walked back, opened the door, and made sure it slam it shut, before walking away again.

 

//

 

Molly was happy with Tom. _She was._

 

‘I love you,’ Tom whispered in her hair, as he pulled her closer to him in her bed, in _their_ bed, as he drifted off to sleep.

 

‘Love you too’, Molly said automatically. She listened to his breathing, counting the minutes until they smoothed out into slow puffs of air. Molly pulled away from his grasp, moving to her side of the bed.

 

She loved Tom, she really did. He was everything she had wanted as a teenager, the sort of man her mother would’ve called good enough to be her prince, but that was just it; she didn’t want a _prince_ anymore. Not really. She could settle, she could have a comfortable life with Tom, because that was what she deserved- someone that she knew would be there when she came home, someone she could rely on and talk to when she really needed to. He made her feel important, feel secure and loved, and…and it wasn’t enough.

 

She was selfish, she knew, because she was leading him on. She was a terrible person, a horrible person and the worst thing was that she could feel, actually feel that way she was _manipulating_ him. Suddenly, she wasn’t better than Mycroft anymore.

 

She didn’t want anything from Mycroft, she didn’t. But she had yet to see him, to know he was alive. She wasn’t stupid, and she knew even Sherlock wouldn’t be so cruel as to not tell her if something was wrong with Mycroft, and she hadn’t seen him since he had left, and she had to know, really know, that he was still alive and she hadn’t imagined what had happened between them before….before he left.

 

Her skin crawled with not knowing, not being able to put an actual image to the memory of him in her mind, the intimate images she had of when she last saw him- the grooves of his fingers, the light freckles on the expanse of his back, the coarse ginger hairs that caught the light. It was embedded in her mind, ringing in her ears like a siren.

 

But she was engaged. She would be married. She didn’t want Mycroft. _She didn’t._

 

//

 

**You look beautiful today, honeybear.**

Molly frowned at the text message, walking and staring at her phone at the same time. She reached the front of the hospital and stopped in front of it, putting her phone away.

 

She stood still, and waited for the cameras in front of the hospital to span around and focus on her. It was now a daily ritual; just something she couldn’t help but do. She knew….she knew Mycroft had said he wasn’t using them anymore, but obviously he was, because they looked at her all the same.

 

She didn’t care how….weird this was, anymore. It was a silent communication, the only communication between her and Mycroft- and perhaps it was for the best. For these small moments, she could savour what could have been between them, just a little, and then go to work and live her life the way she had to.

 

Molly’s phone beeped again.

 

Molly blinked at the text message, and slowly began to type.

 

**Who is this?**

Molly put her phone away again, feeling confused, and walked inside towards her lab. In her office, she quickly pulled off her coat and scarf, ready for the new day. She began to tie her hair into a ponytail, pulling it away from her face. Her phone beeped again.

 

**An admirer. Don’t tie your hair up, sweetie, it hides your face. And I looooove your face.**

Molly stared at the text, feeling more confused and slightly creeped out. She looked around the room, alarmed. She remembered the package bomb with Jim Moriarty written on it, the man that had come after her, had almost strangled her to death. She felt cold and clammy, her mind racing and yet somehow also coming to a stop.

 

 **Who is this?** Molly wrote again.

 

**The best lover you’ve ever had.**

Molly blinked at the text, and then laughed at the joke, puffing out a breath of relief.

 

**Tom? Don’t do that to me! Whose phone are you using? Your number didn’t come up.**

Molly laughed again, as she put her phone away.

 

After all the…attack that she went through while Sherlock had been gone, everything had been quiet. No crazy assassins had come after her, no panicked messages from Sherlock. Everything had been quiet, and she guessed, really, that had been down to Sherlock getting everybody in Moriarty’s network. Whoever had threatened her, Molly knew, was dead.

 

_Mycroft had taken down Moriarty’s network too._

Molly pushed away the thought, and walked into her lab.

 

‘Okay, Lars,’ Molly said, looking down as she pulled her gloves on. ‘We have a lot of work to do today, Ms Davidson is bringing-‘

 

Molly stopped, looking in front of her. Lars was no where to be seen, and seemed to have been replaced by someone all too familiar.

 

‘Anthea’, Molly said, shortly. Anthea smiled at her, lab coat and gloves on, her hair tied in an obedient and clean plait. Molly had envied, once upon a time, her ability to look good wearing anything, while Molly always felt…unkempt somehow.

 

‘I’m Alice again’, Anthea said. ‘So…..’

 

Molly looked at her, unable to think of anything to say.

 

‘…..Long time no see?’, Anthea said, still smiling.

 

Molly wanted to pull her carefully styled and combed hair out of its plait. Anger boiled within her, ready to burst like hot lava and ash, and the desperate urge to break something was very, very tempting. Molly rarely felt this, this angry. But the hurt was still there, the horrible, horrible hurt, the way Anthea had abandoned her just like Mycroft, without a word or even a sight. No phone calls, no text messages, not a single thing. She hadn’t felt so alone in her life, and she had always, always been alone. To have found a….a friendship that made sense, really made sense to her, even if it was a secret spy-slash-assassin or what ever Anthea was, was something she never thought she would ever get, and to have it taken away without a word hurt _a lot._

 

Molly didn’t want anything to do with Anthea anymore.

 

‘What happened to Lars?’, Molly said, shortly, trying to keep her face as blank as possible, all the while knowing that she was failing badly.

 

Anthea watched her, carefully. Molly couldn’t help but be reminded of Mycroft, and wonder who had learned to _stare_ that way first.

 

‘He has been reassigned’, Anthea said. ‘I asked for the position. Mycroft does not require me right now.’

 

The name made Molly flinch, and she knew Anthea had noticed. Molly knew she could fight Anthea, refuse to work with her, but….but Molly was tired, really, too tired to fight.

 

‘Fine’, Molly said, trying to act as though she was fine with this sudden change, that she wasn’t disturbed by this all too physical reminder of the last year and a half when her life had changed, and then became the same again. But now Sherlock was back, Molly knew things hadn’t really become the same again, not really.

 

‘I have some tissue cultures I need to go and check for Sherlock’, Molly said. ‘You can wait for Ms Davidson to come and collect her husband’s body.’

 

‘Her husband was missing for months before they found him,’ Anthea said, quickly reading a form. ‘She can wait a few more minutes. I thought we could talk.’

 

‘You shouldn’t keep people waiting, Anthea’, Molly said, her voice sharper than she would’ve liked. Anthea was staring at her with an intensity that should have made Molly uncomfortable, but Molly was prepared, so she stared back.

 

‘You shouldn’t keep people waiting’, Molly repeated, more softly. She breathed deeply, and breathed out shakily. ‘Especially….Especially if they have already been waiting a long time.’

 

‘Molly-‘, Anthea started.

 

‘I have work to do’, Molly said, feeling like she was about to cry.

 

Whatever happened, she refused to do it in front of someone who had masqueraded as her best friend, but was really just another betrayal to add to the list.

 

//

 

Molly sat with Tom in a small café around the corner from work, and watched him eat his prawn and mayonnaise sandwich.

 

‘Tom’, Molly said, suddenly, ignoring her chicken Caesar salad. ‘Did you text me this morning?’

 

Tom swallowed down a bite and looked at her.

 

‘No’, Tom said, confused. ‘Should I have? Have I forgotten something?’

 

Molly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this, because Tom never forgot a single one of their anniversaries, not even stupid ones.

 

‘N-No’, Molly said, and her heart started beating hard. ‘Just wondering. Phone glitch, that’s all.’

 

Tom smiled at her, and Molly tried to stop her heart beating so hard, dread filling her stomach. And as though on the dot, her phone beeped again.

 

**Who is Tom? He can’t be better lover than me. I know what you like.**

Molly nearly gasped out loud, and Tom looked at her, alarmed.

 

‘Are you okay?’, Tom asked, looking like the typical concerned boyfriend. Molly gulped hard, and forced a smile on her face.

 

‘N-Nothing,’ Molly said. ‘I just….I just need to go back to work.’

 

//

 

Molly didn’t tell Anthea. She knew it was a stupid thing to do, and that it was petty, but if she was going to tell anyone about this, then it would be Mycroft or no one.

 

But Mycroft wasn’t going to turn up anytime soon, and she was strong enough to deal with this alone. So she would. She had been alone her entire life.

 

//

 

Mycroft was busy, and determined to win this game. He stared at Sherlock, his brother’s challenging glaze spurring him on.

 

Suddenly the machine buzzed loudly, announcing his failure to the entire room.

 

‘Oh bugger’, Mycroft exclaimed, dropping the tweezers. Sherlock grinned, entirely too pleased with himself.

 

‘Whoopsies’, Sherlock said. As Mycroft glared at him, Sherlock looked down at the piece Mycroft had failed to get hold off, and a thoughtful look filled his face.

 

‘Can’t handle a broken heart?’, Sherlock said, his eyes piercing him. ‘How very telling.’

 

Mycroft stared back, refusing to be the first to look away, silently reprimanding his brother.

 

_I didn’t break Molly’s heart. She knew what she was dealing with._

Sherlock looked back, almost lazily yet somehow seemed resistant as well.

 

_I never said it was her heart that was broken, Mycroft._

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temples.

 

_Neither of us have hearts in the metaphorical sense. You know that, Sherlock._

Sherlock leaned back in his chair.

 

_Liar._

Mycroft groaned. ‘Don’t be smart, Sherlock.’

 

//

 

Mycroft sat in the little bistro that he hadn’t been in half a year, and folded his fingers under his chin. The little restaurant was bustling and busy as usual, and the noise provided some comfort, in a way noise usually never did for him. It gave him some reprieve from his thoughts, but memories seemed to cling from the walls of this very establishment.

 

‘She feels very hurt’, Anthea said, stirring her French onion soup. ‘With me, at least. It’s more difficult to guess how she feels about you.’

 

Mycroft closed his eyes.

 

‘Anthea’, Mycroft said. ‘For the last time, desist from this line of talk.’

 

‘Actually’, Anthea continued. ‘It isn’t really. Your feelings are returned, at least.’

 

_Your feelings._

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Mycroft said, feeling acid rising in his stomach. ‘I do not have…feelings’.

 

The words came out of his mouth before he wanted them too, the lack of control over his own sentence structure and wording making him despair.

 

Anthea groaned.

 

‘Does being a genius somehow remove your ability to understand simple concepts?’ Anthea demanded. ‘This does not need to be as complicated as you’re making it. She slept with you didn’t she?’

 

Mycroft nearly choked on his tea, but decided he was too refined to do so.

 

‘I do wish you would keep to your own business’, Mycroft said.

 

Anthea grinned at him, and then appeared to soften.

 

‘Please stop avoiding her’, Anthea said. ‘She won’t talk to me. She might….I think she hates me. Maybe if you talked to her first, I might actually get my best friend back.’

 

The words were poignant and very unlike the assistant Mycroft knew well; he looked at her sharply.

 

‘Do not attempt to manipulate me’, Mycroft said. ‘It does not work.’

 

Anthea smiled. ‘Worth a try. Still, it’s not a lie.’

 

Mycroft looked carefully at the menu on the table, avoiding Anthea’s glaze. His eyes stopped at the word ‘risotto’ on the thing piece of card, and he tried not to think too much about the associations he appeared to hold with the simple rice dish.

 

‘Perhaps’, Mycroft said. ‘I will pay her a visit.’

 

Anthea looked confused, and then beamed at him. Mycroft sighed.

 

He should really find a new assistant. He knew he would not.

 

//

 

One thing Mycroft had always detested about his own mind was its ability to draw associations between everything. What Mycroft detested about London, at least at the moment, was that everything could be associated to Molly.

 

 **Read:** _Risotto_. Molly’s favourite dish at the little bistro they had frequented together so long ago ( **note:** in realistic terms, not that long ago).

 _Hospital-_ Molly works at St Bartholomew’s hospital- it is 10am therefore it is likely she would be there. A simple visit was entirely within the realms of possibility. **Plan of action:** he would not go now. However, he was not a coward.

  _BBC news:_ a pet store recently went up in flames. Molly would be upset due to her strange and slightly endearing obsession with felines. **Footnote:** Molly in general loved most domestic animals.

 _Observe-_ the opposition party leader is wearing a striped jumper. Molly has a pink version of the same monstrosity, however when she wore it, it did not look like said monstrosity, but highlighted her curved figure. The party leader, however, looked decidedly less appealing.

 _Remember-_ visit Sherlock. Sherlock knows Molly, and has recently been spending more time with her to spite him, for there could not be any other logical reason.

 _Observe-_ Female councillor voted over an obnoxious male. The moronic qualities of humankind never ceased to annoy him- this woman was silently strong, like Molly, and would perform well. Also, this woman is female, therefore reminds him of Molly, who is also female, something Mycroft can attest to.

 

His mind palace, Mycroft knew, had become a bit of a ramshackle, and was desperately in need of some ‘deleting’ for want of a better word.

 

Sherlock being annoying over the Operation game- **assign to recycle bin.**

Anthea being a busy-body- **assign to recycle bin.**

Useless parliamentary meeting- **assign to recycle bin.**

Dastardly loud new song by a woman with obnoxiously dyed blonde hair and too much eyeliner- **permanent deletion.**

_Molly gasped loudly as Mycroft pulled her closer to him, his mouth over her-_

**Restore. Keep. File to saved.**

 

Mycroft was not a sentimental man.

 

//

Tom looked entirely too much like Sherlock, Mycroft realised as soon as he stepped into 221B Baker’s Street. He could hear DI Lestrade’s deep voice and Mrs Hudson’s shrill laughs, and even Molly’s quieter words. He saw Tom through the crack in the door, which was currently acting as his shield from the party.

 

Sherlock had, once again, saved the day and was basking in the glory of his return. Mycroft would not begrudge him, however, as this was one of the few times Mycroft knew that Sherlock truly deserved it.

 

Sherlock stood in front of him, looking knowingly at Tom, and then back at Mycroft.

 

_How do you explain this?_

Mycroft swallowed hard, swallowing the well of emotion that seemed to rein freely in his body these days. _He was not a sentimental man._ He missed the days when he could easily absent himself from emotion, could reliably say they were not there. He knew now it was not so, but he could not, he would not, let anyone else see him so compromised.

 

Blanketing any expression on his face, Mycroft walked into the room.

 

//

 

‘Oh dear’, Sherlock said, theatrically. ‘Look who is here to ruin the afternoon. You could have given me a few more daylight hours before stamping all over my brilliance, Mycroft.’

 

Molly’s head whipped up, hard, as Sherlock said the name, her heart instantly speeding up. She saw John look at her and frown, but she found she didn’t care.

 

Mycroft stepped into the room slowly, his umbrella and coat on his elbow. He looked…he looked as powerful as ever, somehow even more than usual, but Molly had been around Sherlock too much recently not to notice the slightly weariness in his footsteps or the way he seemed to favour his left leg over his right. Molly swallowed hard, and tried to look away. It was harder to than she thought, not when Mycroft seemed to have just walked in and taken all the air out of the room, out of Molly’s lungs. She felt drawn to him in a way she shouldn’t be, images and memories running riot in her brain.

 

‘Do not worry yourself too much, brother’, Mycroft said, looking straight at Sherlock. ‘I only came to give my congratulations on your recent return.’

 

‘Fine’, Sherlock said, looking annoyed. ‘You can go now.’

 

‘I will, presently,’ Mycroft said, smoothly, and Molly knew she was staring at him and as she tried to look away again, weary of the fact that Tom was right next to her, Mycroft was suddenly _looking back._ ‘Can I not check on my brother?’

 

Sherlock was smiling oddly, Molly realised, and felt a chill go down her spine somehow.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat carefully.

 

‘Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said, clearly, ignoring Tom, DI Lestrade and John whom were all looking at him curiously ( **read:** very curiously). ‘Would you mind if we could talk for a moment downstairs quickly?’

 

Molly felt her heart stop.

 

//

A few days earlier, shortly before Sherlock somehow managed to almost blow himself up ( **read:** even this could be associated to Molly, in the fact that it took a bomb for him to recognise Molly in a….more physical sense. He would readily admit that now, albeit only to himself), Mycroft had paid a visit to Baker’s street.

 

‘You know’, Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. ‘The folly of a queen is that she keeps on chasing a king, ruthlessly and without betraying sentiment, and all the while under-estimates the king’s power. I believe that makes her the _stupid_ one.’

 

Mycroft held the king in his hand, chess board forgotten.

 

‘Molly isn’t my king, Sherlock’, Mycroft said. ‘I do not under-estimate Molly’s abilities, so stop this poetical nonsense.’

 

Sherlock looked at him.

 

‘Do not mistake me’, Sherlock said, almost hissing. ‘I am not interested in this strange fascination of yours with Molly for any other reason other than the fact that, frankly, it is bizarre. Also, for science.’

 

‘Of course’, Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. Sherlock was glaring at him, and then appeared to soften for a second. Mycroft could almost see the tactical thoughts running through Sherlock’s head, and he was glad- tactics was one thing both he and Sherlock did well.

 

For once, it seemed as though Sherlock was on his side, as much as he ever would be.

 

‘Everything is a game, Mycroft’, Sherlock said. ‘Play it like one. A queen is the most powerful chess piece in the game. The king is the most important one.’

 

Sherlock picked up a pawn.

 

‘Tom is a pawn masquerading as a queen’, Sherlock explained. ‘But he never will be one. Your objective is simple.’

 

Mycroft looked at Sherlock darkly.

 

‘Why are you doing this?’, Mycroft said, feeling slightly alarmed, but also recognising a plan as it fell into place. _This was abnormal._ Normally he made the plans and Sherlock executed them. It was how it worked while they were in Serbia. It was how they would work in London.

 

Sherlock looked conflicted for a second, and then looked at Mycroft clearly.

 

‘I don’t think you deserve Molly’, Sherlock said. ‘She is…a good person. Human. She is also hiding something from us both. You can protect her in a way I can not and will not.’

 

‘You don’t deserve her either’, Mycroft said. Sherlock shook his head.

 

‘She is not in love with me’, Sherlock said. ‘Nor I with her. I wish you would see that already, it’s getting boring.’

 

_She is hiding something from us both._

Mycroft looked at Sherlock questioningly.

 

‘I don’t know what it is’, Sherlock said. ‘But she’s worried about something, and its not…her normal worry.’

 

Mycroft felt his blood run cold.

 

‘Is she in trouble?’ Mycroft said, feeling alarmed.

 

Sherlock looked at him. Mycroft wondered when Sherlock became the sensible one in their sibling relationship.

 

‘Find out- aren’t you the one that always knows everyone’s business?’, Sherlock said, frustrated. ‘Molly isn’t my problem- I am simply telling you that it would benefit us all if she was yours.’

 

‘How would this benefit you, brother?’, Mycroft said, looking down at his king piece.

 

‘I have something to hold over you,’ Sherlock said, his voice deeper than usual. ‘Something to that effect. Now will you stop this infernal nonsense and talk to her?’

 

Mycroft looked at the pawn in Sherlock’s hand.

 

‘Be a worthy queen’, Mycroft said, unable to believe he was referring to himself. ‘Remove the pawn.’

 

Sherlock grinned at him from the chair he sat in across from Mycroft, and they both adopted a similar stance- hands folded under chins, leg folded over the other.

 

‘You’ve done worse’, Sherlock said. ‘Also, I’m the only one that wears that coat.’

 

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! I’m sorry if this wasn’t what you were expecting, but I sort of needed to….set the series 3 scene a bit. The feel of the story has changed a little now. Remember, while I’m using the events of series 3, I will mostly work around them than IN them, and go backwards and forwards….that is to say, while most of the events of this chapter happened in the Empty Hearse episode, that’s not to say the episode won’t play a part in future chapters. I’m not quite done with it. 
> 
> Okay, to explain the chapter increase….I know various people will hate that, and some will love it. I do have a slight issue though- I know this story is made longer by the fact that, unlike a lot of other stories out there, there is a large amount of internal monologues by both Molly and Mycroft. While everyone may not agree with me, I find these extremely necessary because as much as this story does have a plot, its very secondary- the point of this story is to make Mollcroft seem plausible, and that requires an in-depth analysis into both character’s thoughts and emotions and how those could gel together. Also, Mycroft is a very difficult person to do this for, and I try really, really hard, and if you think about it- is Mycroft someone that would actually ever say what they really think? Therefore, internal monologues- I will keep them. Even if they make the story long. I try to keep friendly in all my reader-writer interactions because a lot of people I genuinely lovely, but for the few that aren’t- this is MY story, and not canon. I am not Moffat or Gatiss and never will be. Please don’t tell me how to write my story.
> 
> Sorry for that long ramble, guys. Anyways- please let me know what you thought in the comments! They help the plotbunnies a lot- they help with the updating a lot.
> 
> To ask me questions, give me prompts or just to stalk me, follow me on my tumblr here: http://www.tumblr.com/blog/bloglavictoire


	18. The Skies Are All Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some battles you can't fight by yourself. There are some decisions that you should never make on your own. You are human.
> 
> In which Molly faces a mental struggle she can't cope with, Mycroft finds himself one step behind, and Anthea knows she's seen this situation before. 
> 
> Based in Sherlock Series 3, refers to 'The Empty Hearse' (S03X01) and 'Sign Of Three' (S03x02). Some warnings for signs of mental distress, illusions to cyber (text) stalking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do NOT own BBC Sherlock, nor any of the characters and story backgrounds included in this story. Sherlock is solely the property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss etc. No copyright infringements intended. I do not make any money out of this. I also do not own Lady Gaga. 
> 
> Author’s Note: Hello! Its been a while! I hope you forgive me as I bring with me chapter 18 of HIPS. We’re coming near the plotty side of this story now and near the end- while this story is still mostly a character study, there is a secondary plottish bit that I am thoroughly enjoying writing. I hope this chapter is okay- I wasn’t totally happy with how it turned out, but please remember this is written as if a stream of consciousness from the mind of the characters, in this case, mostly Molly. A little less Molly-Mycroft interaction in this one I’m afraid, but don’t worry- that will pick up soon!   
> Okay, now with the usuals:  
> -This chapter was beta’d by the wonderful Adalind. Thank you so much for your time and help.  
> -PLEASE remember this story has an M rating now. While that isn’t significantly an issue in this chapter, it will be again soon for many, many reasons. Not just sex (get your mind out of the gutter) either.  
> \- This story chapter was named after the lyrics of ‘Fire and Ice’ by Within Temptation. If you want to listen to it, I will have a spotify link on my tumblr.
> 
> WARNING: Not particularly triggery, but illusions to cyber (text) stalking and bullying, some illusions to mental distress. Not particularly a big deal in this chapter, but please remember, REMEMBER the M rating if this sort of thing upsets you.  
> Also, this chapter sort of goes backwards and forwards through the episodes of series 3 ('The Empty Hearse' and 'Sign Of Three'). I don’t think its particularly confusing, but please note this.  
> On with the story!

Before Mycroft had realised he was human after all, Anthea had fallen in love.

David was tall, dark, handsome, and as a result, Mycroft thought him entirely too generic for Anthea, and automatically disapproved of her taste in potential significant others. But then again, Mycroft did not feel there was, nor should be, a need for a ‘significant other’ in their line of work, dangerous and vulnerable as their positions were.

However, Mycroft detested the idea of involving himself in such business, so he kept out of Anthea’s way, allowed her to moon over this boy internally, while all the while keeping her usual hard and resilient exterior. Suddenly, the boy and Anthea were always together, talking quietly, heads leaned in, the tension palpable and exceedingly annoying and distracting.

David was a European liaison sent to Mycroft to discuss and deal with business that bored Mycroft, but none the less did his job irritatingly well. He was concise, efficient and, most of all, easily listened to Mycroft’s instructions and carried them out to the letter.

‘He is a sheep’, Mycroft told Anthea, on one of the rare times he felt he needed to intervene. ‘I do hope this does not mean your work will suffer.’

Anthea had stared at him, her back straight and face blank.

‘You don’t need to worry’, Anthea said, her face looking down. ‘It won’t.’

Mycroft had nodded, and carried on writing.

After two days of the conversation, Mycroft noted that Anthea never openly sought out David again. Not that she had done so before, but now he occasionally caught David talking to him, but looking at his assistant almost longingly, and Anthea stood by Mycroft’s side, ignoring him.

Mycroft never asked Anthea what had happened, and whether he had had any role in the sudden fall out of their blooming relationship. Everything had fallen apart quite suddenly, and Mycroft knew, although he  filed  the thought to a distant part of his mind palace, that he had indeed been a catalyst to Anthea’s isolation.

A year later, Mycroft overheard a minor official talk about David’s advantageous marriage into a high up political family while he was at a conference in France. Mycroft frowned at the name, and drew the connections of David in his mind palace back to Anthea.

When Mycroft went back to London, he vowed to himself that he never mention it to Anthea. This was a lesson in why emotions were a disadvantage, why they compromised you, why they were ‘stupid’, as Sherlock would say.  This is what is bound to happen, what you deserve if you are unintelligent enough to make such a human folly.

This, in itself, was confusing. Anthea was not unintelligent, this he could attest to. She was rational-minded, a practical human being, a realist after his own mind. She was manipulative in her own right, but knew when and how to use it.

When Mycroft landed in England, he knew that Anthea was already aware of all he was hiding before he had even set foot on English soil.

She made no signs of knowing, however, and Mycroft did not wish to be a shoulder to cry on, so that was the end of that.

Governments continued to be made and fall, wars continued to be threatened and waged, discussions became undignified brawls, and Mycroft had never been needed by certain politicians and governments as he was in the next few months. As a result, he had no reason to wonder after Anthea’s private life, something he would never find reason to meddle in anyway. But he couldn’t deny that he was curious and perhaps….he wondered if it was time for a new assistant.

A few months later, Mycroft was in Italy and met David’s wife by complete accident. Coincidence, Mycroft had thought, was a lion in sheep’s clothing.

David’s wife was heavily pregnant.

That night, Mycroft found himself outside Anthea’s hotel bedroom door, for reasons he could not bring himself to analyse. There was nothing to analyse, Mycroft had told himself, and he did not care. This was all a fault of Anthea’s making.

Read: small, heavy breathing could be heard from his side of the door, highly suggestive of….sobbing. Small catches of breath indicated that Anthea was trying to be quiet about it, while the shuffling sounds were an attempt to hide the minimal sounds.

‘You might as well come in’, Anthea said, and Mycroft was not surprised. ‘I know you’re there.’

Mycroft opened the door fully, and found his deductions were correct. For the first time ever, he had hoped they weren’t.

Anthea’s careful fascade was gone. Tears were streaming down her face as she sat on the bed, and Mycroft could almost feel the heaviness that was her expression, and most likely, her heart. Mascara trails lined her cheeks in a way that managed to somehow make her still seem graceful, a skill Mycroft knew was engrained in those that had grown up in an elitist family, no matter what had happened after, as was Anthea’s case.  Her hair was falling out of its careful up-do, and her hands were trembling.

This situation was wrong, Mycroft knew. He had never seen his assistant like this, and nor did he feel that he ever should. She was like him as much as anyone could be- he had trained her himself. Anthea was not made to be broken, like he himself was not, yet here she was, broken and damaged all the same.

Mycroft was not equipped to deal with this.

‘I was not in love with him’, Anthea said, suddenly. Mycroft could feel the awkwardness in the air, covered with a thick layer of despair in a way that seeped into his skin, and then his bones.

‘Of course not’, Mycroft said. He quickly measured a 25 centimetre gap from Anthea, and sat down.

They sat in silence, the air punctuated by Anthea’s heavy breathing.

‘All lives end, Anthea’, Mycroft said after a while. ‘All hearts are broken.’

‘They don’t need to be’, Anthea said, quickly, her voice defiant. Mycroft looked at her.

‘You know that it is’, Mycroft said, quietly. And it was true. Mycroft closed his eyes, and thought of his little brother, the delicate purple bruises and track marks on his arms like blossoming flowers, and the ice-cold pallor of his skin, the brittle exaggerated bones of his ribs as Mycroft had tried to force him to come, _to come home now._

‘People will always leave us’, Mycroft said. ‘What makes you think you can give someone something they can’t get from somewhere else?’

Anthea’s face, if possible, became wetter.

‘But what about if I want something?’, she said. ‘Why did I have to let it go?’

‘Because it is what is right’, Mycroft said. Anthea breathed heavily, and after a while, she nodded.

‘If you were in my position’, Anthea said, quietly. ‘Would you do the same? Just let go?’

Mycroft thought of Sherlock again, his baby brother on a sodden mattress in a building full of people slowly destroying themselves, rotting away.

‘Yes’, he said. ‘I would.’

Ten days later, Mycroft had Sherlock sedated and sent into a rehabilitation centre until involuntary entry.

_All lives end. All hearts are broken. But hope never ends._

//

Molly followed Mycroft downstairs, into Mrs Hudson’s flat, and didn’t even have time to wonder if they got permission from the woman to be entering her flat, when Mycroft let her through and closed the door behind them.

She gulped, her heart in her throat, and Molly was finding it hard to swallow properly, let alone breathe. She looked at Mycroft’s back as he swiftly and efficiently walked to the door and closed it- no, locked it- and, without wanting to, remembered trailing her hands down those shoulders, the broad lines of his back and spine.

Before she knew it, Mycroft had turned towards her, his eyes piercing her like they always had, the way they had before Sherlock had come back, before Tom, before everything had somehow become even more messed up than before.

‘I-‘, Molly began, and then stopped, unable to speak. Her hands were trembling and she couldn’t stop it, _just stop it,_ even though what she wanted most in the world right now was to act like- show him- that she didn’t care. _Because she didn’t care about him_ , she didn’t, she didn’t.

‘Why are you with Tom?’, Mycroft said. Molly blinked, and suddenly realised how close Mycroft was to her, as though he had managed to climb right inside her, underneath her skin in the time it had taken her to breathe. After all the time he had been missing, had just left her with a cold bed, with nothing, he was back inside her head again.

‘E-Excuse me?’, Molly said, her heart dropping to her stomach.

‘Tom is not right for you’, Mycroft said, simply, seeming unaffected by how close they were. Molly leaned backwards on Mrs Hudson’s table, almost ending up on top of it. Mycroft’s eyes flickered down her body as this happened, looming above her, and for one crazy, insane moment, Molly thought he would kiss her. Now all she could think about the rough brush of his lips against hers, and the way it had felt.

‘Stop it’, Molly said, breathing hard and hating how much she was still effected by this closeness. ‘I just- Just stop now.’

Mycroft blinked at her, and put his hands in his pockets- a defensive pose, and suddenly Molly realised that, after all this time, she could read him too.

‘Tom is….Tom is perfect’, Molly said. ‘He’s good for me. Why do y-you care?’

Mycroft seemed conflicted for a second, and then, as quickly as it had appeared, the expression was gone. Molly swallowed hard, knowing what she wanted from this conversation- had wanted, for such a long time, to know where he had gone, whether he had thought about her, what he wanted from her now. Except he _couldn’t_ want anything from her now, because everything she had wanted to give to him was with Tom now.

‘Tom is a sheep’, Mycroft started, hands still in pockets and way too close to her. Molly could feel her heart beating fast, too fast. ‘He’s generic. He has decided for himself what he thinks a woman would want, and replicates it. A typical practise of most men.’

Molly stared at him, her heart stopping.

‘What?’ she croaked.

‘His actions are tailored to all females, not simply yourself,’ Mycroft said. ‘There is no guarantee that he feels anything for you. In fact, I can say with some certainty that he does not.’

Molly looked down at the soft carpet on Mrs Hudson’s floor, and felt tears swarm in her eyes, clouding her vision.

‘Is-Is that all you wanted to tell me?’, Molly said, still looking at the floor and Mycroft’s feet. ‘T-That I’m not s-special and that my fiancé can’t possibly be in love with me, or is there more?’

There was silence from above her, and Molly couldn’t move as horror, anger and sadness- no, despair- built up within her, making her feel as though she could go crashing against the floor.

The most horrible part of this was the fact that it wasn’t the part about Tom that bothered her. Even though it did, because Mycroft was a Holmes and so was probably right. If anything, it made her despair more, because now it meant that no one loved her, no one at all. She had known for a long time that Tom was too good for her, an entirely too good person for her to ruin by marrying, because she didn’t love him either. But to hear Mycroft say it, like a death sentence for a condemned person, was a hundred times worse.

But the worst part of it was that Mycroft was telling her as though he thought that was all he needed to say to her.

After Mycroft had left her, all alone in an empty bed with no sign that he had ever been there, Molly had cried for days and felt lonelier than she ever had in her life. Alone was all she had, for so long, and she had dealt with it, lived in the ice-coldness of loneliness, but never before had it felt as….damaging as it had then. She needed Tom, had needed Tom.

For Mycroft to have the nerve to turn up, without a word of apology or even just a word, was more than Molly could bear. She wasn’t a mouse, and she was sick of people, Mycroft, of thinking of her like that.

_Molly mouse._

Molly shivered as she remembered Mycroft muttering the words into her skin, all those months ago, and then realised that the man himself was looking at her at the moment. Molly blinked at him, his eyes turning dark as though he knew what she was thinking about.

_Is that all you wanted to say to me?_

‘On the contrary, Molly’, Mycroft said, his voice quiet. ‘You are very special.’

Molly jerked her head to look up at him, her eyes blown wide.

‘What?’, Molly said, shocked.

Molly noticed Mycroft move slightly away from her, air filling the gap between them.

‘Tom is not of your standards, Molly’, Mycroft said. ‘You can do much better than a sheep.’

Molly found that she still couldn’t look at him, her heart thumping hard.

‘Why do you care, Mycroft?’, Molly said, her throat hurting. ‘Why do you care now?’

_Why did he care now?_ Where was he when she needed him, when it was important? She knew he had to help Sherlock, and she understood, she did- but for six long months she had heard nothing, nothing from him at all. He could have- he could have been _dead_ and she would never have known.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Molly spoke before he could.

‘I-I waited for you, you know’, Molly said, still unable to look at him, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Her voice was becoming shrill, but she didn’t care. ‘I didn’t know what I was waiting for, but I-I still did. For ages.’

Molly swallowed hard, tears blurring her vision again, making it hard to speak. Mycroft said nothing, and Molly didn’t want him to, not now.

‘I thought maybe you would call or text or’, Molly gulped hard, and then looked up at him, her tears finally falling. ‘I’m not a soldier’s wife. I didn’t want to be left behind.’

Molly saw Mycroft flinch, slightly, at the word ‘wife’ and all she could feel was despair. She knew she had been right, now, to not wait for Mycroft, a man so incapable to feeling something- anything- for someone, let alone someone like her.

‘I didn’t expect you to wait for anything’, Mycroft said, his voice neutral, but Molly could see some kind of conflict in his eyes, the blue colour looking stormy, somehow. He was frowning now, openly, and Molly could breathe in his familiar smell from the small gap between them, hating exactly how familiar and….safe…. he smelt, even now. It shouldn’t be possible.

‘I, however, did not expect to find you with an imbecile once I did come back’, Mycroft said, tearing through Molly’s thoughts. Molly felt anger rush through her.

‘Tom is-isn’t an imbecile!’, Molly said, her voice squeaky.

‘My dear Molly’, Mycroft said. ‘He is, indeed’.

‘You-You think you’re so much better than him’, Molly said. ‘But…But you’re not!’

Mycroft’s face moved oddly at the words, and Molly, for once savage second, hoped he felt as terrible as she did, felt the words tear through him the way that he’s did to her.

‘You didn’t want me to wait for you, then what was I supposed to do?’, Molly said, knowing her voice was getting louder. ‘M-Months…I thought you were dead!’

‘You knew I was with Sherlock, Molly’, Mycroft said, looking irritated. ‘There is no need for hysteria.’

Molly’s eyes popped at the words, and she felt betrayed, anger washing through her bones.

‘Hysteria?’ Molly said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

_When had her life become this?_

All those months of worry. All those months of knowing nothing, being alone and- and-

‘Hysteria?’, Molly said, trying to level her voice and failing. Anger bubbling through her and she wasn’t sure how she was still standing, because her legs were beginning to quake beneath her. ‘I was alone! I was all by myself! Even Anthea wasn’t talking to me, wasn’t with me, how was I supposed to know where you or Sherlock were?’

‘Sherlock and I were perfectly safe, I assure you’, Mycroft said, and the irritation was gone from his voice and replaced by something new. If Molly had known him less, had cared less, she would have said it was desperation.

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few strands.

‘I thought it….better if you weren’t aware of our location’, Mycroft said. ‘Your position in all of this is dangerous as it is.’

Molly’s mind, without her permission, ran back to the suspicious texts she had been receiving for a while, the texts that were both creepy and too well-informed in a way that scared her. She had wanted to tell Mycroft for a while, but knew she couldn’t, not when they were like this, not when Mycroft obviously thought so little of her anyways. She was pathetic, she knew, but she couldn’t tell him.

Mycroft was looking at her strangely, his eyes fixed on hers and Molly felt a shock run through her.

‘What are you not telling me?’, Mycroft said, his voice sounded strangled somehow. Molly held in a breath, and kept her eyes on him, willing herself not to betray her thoughts. It was impossible, she knew, because while Sherlock was good at deduction, Mycroft could read her like no one else.

Mycroft said nothing, and Molly was breathing hard, trying to stop herself from trembling.

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, and Molly closed her eyes, leaning on the table. A few seconds went by, and Molly felt a hand- a large, warm hand- rest on her upper arm and pull her off the table. Molly opened her eyes in time to see Mycroft pull her gently to a chair, and make her sit on it.

Molly blinked as Mycroft crouched down in front of her, his trousers creasing heavily as he put himself at a level lower than herself, and all Molly could think about was how intimate this felt, a way it shouldn’t feel, because she had a fiancé, and she was getting engaged. To another man.

‘Am I to leave you alone?’, Mycroft said, and Molly jerked her head up at the words, surprised. His voice was impossibly soft and though his face was blank....Molly could see something different, changed there.

 ‘Where did you go?’ Molly asked, eventually, her voice more levelled than before. Mycroft frowned at the floor.

Mycroft looked away. Molly wondered if she had somehow inadvertently given him his answer.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that’, Mycroft said.

Molly felt as though her heart would burst.

‘I’m never going to be important’, Molly spilled out before she knew what she was saying. Her face blushed red with horror as she realised what she had said, but then she knew that the words were true- she would never be important, least of all to someone like Mycroft.

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly at the words, but he said nothing. Molly felt sick.

‘I’m glad you’re alive’, Molly said, looking away from Mycroft and scrambling out of the chair.

‘Molly-‘, Mycroft began, his voice quieter than ever. Without resistance.

‘I have to go’, Molly said quickly.

Without looking back at him, Molly ran out of the flat, and down the street.

It was only when she had reached her home when she realised she had forgotten Tom.

//

‘Watch Molly carefully this week, Anthea’, Mycroft said, later that evening. His voice was quiet but steady.

He could not understand why he could sense trouble, now, when it should all be over.

Anthea nodded. ‘Yes sir.’

//

A few days after Sherlock had come back to London, Molly had somehow found herself trailing after him, solving crimes. She had to admit- there had been a time when she had wanted this, if simply to be closer to Sherlock, but so much had changed since then. Molly couldn’t help but think of _how_ things have changed, in a way that she had never seen coming. Mycroft’s face swam around in her vision, knowing that he was alive and in London, but not there, not with her, hurting her, while the guilt of wanting someone other than her own fiancé was killing her inside.

But she was happy now, at least that was what she told herself- after all, wasn’t this what she had wanted? She was finally settled, with a flat and job she loved, a man she knew that loved her and would treat her well. She was happy. She _should have_ been happy.

She had been through so much, so much, in the last year and she deserved this. Something she could call her own. Something, someone she could love openly and not be afraid they were out to kill her, or would hurt her.

Molly blinked, holding back tears, and realised Sherlock was looking down at her as they stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to Sherlock’s flat.

Tears were filling her eyes, and she knew Sherlock already knew what she was thinking about, what she was fighting. He smiled at her, with an understanding expression she never knew Sherlock had, and it made her want to cry more, because now she was pathetic enough for even Sherlock to feel sorry for her.

‘Moriarty slipped up, he made a mistake’, Sherlock said, softly. ‘He missed the one person he thought didn’t matter at all, but mattered the most.’

Molly looked up at Sherlock, and realised how unaffected she felt about how odd this was, how strange it was for Sherlock to be saying this.

‘You made it all possible’, Sherlock said, his voice clear.

Molly looked at him, her heart breaking into tiny little pieces, as though it wasn’t already in that state. Sherlock, _Sherlock_ of all people to say this made her wish more than ever that she was still stuck in before, before she met Mycroft, before she knew him really, because for Sherlock to even be slightly capable of saying this meant that Mycroft was nowhere near. For Sherlock to finally, _finally_ see her, when it was too late, when she couldn’t feel anything anymore, just told her how lost she really was in comparison to what she had thought when she believed herself in love with Sherlock. Life had been a lot less complicated when she had thought she was, and she wished for it now because she wasn’t in love with Sherlock, shouldn’t be in love with Mycroft.

Sherlock was finally saying the things she had wanted all those years, and now all she wanted was to hear the same words out of Mycroft’s mouth, at a time when he wouldn’t even come and see her.

 ‘….After all, all the men you fall for can’t turn out to be sociopaths?’, Sherlock said, questioningly, as though trying to tell her something, something Molly didn’t understand. Molly made a small noise. ‘No’.

This was her rock bottom, she knew. It couldn’t get much worse. Yet in the weeks after Mycroft did speak to her, in Mrs Hudson’s small flat, things somehow got a lot worse.

//

 

The text messages got worse.

**I know how you like to be kissed. Do you know how I’d like to kiss you? Slowly, while I strangle you at the same time.**

**What do they see in you?**

**I always thought your lips are a beautiful kind of red. How red is your blood? Can I see?**

**What do they have that I don’t?**

**I want to see your mind. I want to see you think. I wonder what your brain would feel like in my hands.**

**Do you think about me when you sleep with them?**

Molly was slowly losing her mind. The texts came, one by one, from an unknown number. They came each day at the same time, and the familiarity of them, yet the huge confusion they caused her was scaring her more and more, because she felt like she should know what to do about this.

Whoever was texting her, was a deranged lunatic, that much she knew. She had no way of telling if this had anything to do with the incidents from before- the bomb, the man that had come to kill her- or whether it was someone playing a sick joke, something that was very not funny.

On top of the messages, it seemed like life had decided to made things as difficult as possible. Normally she would have counted it a blessing, anything to not think…..not think about him, not when she was getting married, not when she should be planning a wedding. So the next few weeks after the confrontation were filled with wedding plan meetings with Tom, and registries, and then work decided to become impossible, so she was there all the time.

Seeing Anthea everyday didn’t help matters, but the woman was nothing if not efficient- even though Molly was still not talking to her, she made Molly’s life a lot easier- somehow always knowing when Molly needed tea or coffee, or where a file she needed was, or what Molly needed to do next. They never spoke unless it was to do with work, but Molly found that she missed Anthea, missed her best friend in a way that shouldn’t hurt as much as it did.

**I want your love, I want your revenge…joking! I’ll settle for just revenge.**

‘Who are you?’, Molly founded herself saying out loud. She was sitting in her flat, with some time for herself for a chance, and she tried to think of anyone that could want her….want her hurt, that was still capable of it.

Revenge? Revenge for what? Molly couldn’t think of a time she had ever, purposefully hurt anyone. Did the reference to the Lady Gaga song mean anything? The texts also mentioned her, several times, with other people, obviously in a romantic context but never said who. Molly felt sick at the idea of someone out there watching her. Who could be watching her-

Molly’s blood turned cold for a second. Could it be….

‘It can’t be Mycroft’, Molly whispered to herself. It made sense- Mycroft was-was the only other person she had been with other than Tom in a long time, and with the skills and capacity to watch her as much as this person did. But it can’t be, because no matter what Mycroft was, he wasn’t this. Plus, Mycroft never sounded this insane.

Molly heard the front door close with a bang, and she jumped hard, almost screaming out.

‘Molly!’, Tom shouted from across the room. ‘I just spoke to Mum and she said-‘

Molly felt frustrated and angry with herself, wishing she knew what to do, what to say about the sudden onslaught of text messages from someone who acted like they knew her, and hated her. She had never done anything to hurt anyone in her life, and she didn’t know what to do about it now. She couldn’t tell Mycroft, she wouldn’t, and the idea of telling Anthea, at a time when she still felt horribly angry with her….

‘…And then mum said we could perhaps use our old church, you know, it’s quite nice really…’ Tom babbled on, the noise picking at Molly’s brain. Anger and frustration bubbled within her, the noise only making it worse, and suddenly Molly realised exactly how long it had been since she had last had a good night’s sleep or any free time of her own, with her own thoughts, and suddenly she couldn’t take it anymore.

‘Tom! Shut up!’ Molly said, slamming her hands on the table. Tom stopped, abruptly, looking confused and then slightly angry.

_Good. Act something other than perfect for once_ , Molly thought, savagely. She knew she was taking out her frustration on Tom when it had nothing to do with him, but she found she didn’t care.

‘I’m sick and tired of talking about the wedding all the time’, Molly complained, and she couldn’t believe it, even as she said it. ‘Can you please just…just leave me alone for a second?’

Molly saw something dark flash in Tom’s eyes, and for the second that it was there, it made Molly flinch. And then, as fast as it had appeared, it was gone.

‘I’m sorry’, Tom said slowly. ‘I’ll be in the other room, then’.

He left quietly, and Molly felt more frustrated and confused than ever.

//

‘He’s not making you happy’, Sherlock said. Molly looked up from the complicated napkin origami tutorial she and Sherlock were looking at on youtube, practising for John’s wedding.

‘What?’, Molly said, distracted.

‘Tom isn’t making you happy’, Sherlock said, again, looking irritated with having to repeat himself. ‘I suspect your sex life is not satisfactory.’

Molly jerked her head as she looked at him.

‘Sherlock!’, Molly said, wishing, for once, that Sherlock would stop. ‘It’s not…it’s none of your business.’

Sherlock looked at Molly carefully.

‘There’s something wrong, that you aren’t telling me’, Sherlock said. ‘If it’s not your fiancé than who or what is it? Are you pregnant?’

‘Sherlock’, Molly said, her head hurting. For a while, she had thought about telling Sherlock, just for a second, before realising that no matter how well Sherlock might mean- when he meant well at all- Mycroft would almost definitely intervene. It would be the exact same as relying on Mycroft in the first place.

She wasn’t one of Sherlock’s experiments, a detective game. She wasn’t a crime to be solved.

‘No, those are just the four extra pounds of engagement weight’, Sherlock drawled. ‘Never mind.’

Molly sighed, rubbing her temples.

‘I’m fine, Sherlock, really’, Molly said. ‘Thanks for the concern, though.’

‘I’m not concerned’, Sherlock informed her. ‘I was just curious about whether you’re over my brother yet, but John said I needed to improve my conversational skills, so I was trying to bring it up gradually. But that’s such a waste of time, because I can tell you’re obviously not. Mycroft will be pleased.’

Molly gaped at Sherlock, not sure which part of that sentence is process.

‘Mycroft…will be….what?’ Molly managed.

‘You heard what I said’, Sherlock said, flippantly. ‘Is that what’s bothering you? You’re wasting your time if you think Mycroft will ever apologise for what he did. I’m still waiting for my apology so I’d give up if I were you. Not that I’d want to be you. Too many cats.’

‘I-Sherlock!’, Molly said, trying to keep herself from going red. ‘I’m not…I’m fine. I’m not waiting for anything.’

Sherlock looked at her oddly.

‘Aren’t you?’, Sherlock said. ‘Tell me, Molly, when you look at Tom, what do you see?’

Molly stared at Sherlock.

‘…My fiancé?’, Molly tried. ‘What am I…’

Sherlock sighed.

‘Tom isn’t making you happy, Molly’, Sherlock said. ‘I’m not telling you because I care about you, Tom or my brother, but because scientific evaluations dictate implementing a solution even in an experiment doomed to fail.’

Molly tried very hard to not feel anything, knowing that it would only spur Sherlock on.

‘My relationship is not an experiment, Sherlock’, Molly said, between gritted teeth. ‘And i would like it if you would leave me alone. Please’.

Sherlock looked at her carefully, seeming confused by her reaction, and then looked down at the table at his perfectly formed swan shaped napkin.

‘Then why does Tom look exactly like me?’, Sherlock said. ‘Even when we both know it’s not me you’re in love with?’

//

Molly stood behind the pillar as Sherlock talked on the phone to Mycroft, and she found herself wishing she hadn’t decided to wear bright canary yellow to John’s wedding.

‘….either I’ve caught you in a compromising position or you’re exercising’, Sherlock said. ‘Probably the latter.’

Molly didn’t expect to feel the spike of jealousy that coursed through her body at a rapid pace, and she found herself wishing that it really was the latter.

She wished these feelings would go away, that the guilt that she know felt constantly from the moment she woke up, would go away, that she didn’t feel the need to know what Mycroft was doing even like this.

Yet, somehow she was reduced to this- hiding behind a pillar, listening to a conversation where both sides of the phone call probably already knew she was there.

//

Mycroft stared around his gym, sweat dripping down his head, and yet somehow not managing to drown the milling thoughts in his mind.

‘…You should have come, you know’, Sherlock said. ‘To John’s wedding.’

Mycroft stayed silent for a moment, wondering who was there.

**Read:** Sherlock’s voice was highly suggestive of Mycroft having a reason, a need to be at John’s wedding. Mycroft suspected Molly was the reason, and that she was in attendance. Perhaps within earshot of this phone call.

_I waited for you, you know._

The words ached in him in a way they shouldn’t have been able to, running repeatedly through his head. Mycroft remembered how, years ago, Anthea had cried beside him, weak with loneliness and wanting for something she couldn’t have. Something she had missed, because she had been too late.

Mycroft wondered if he had been too late from the very beginning. He couldn’t give Molly what she wanted, what she would receive from Tom in abundance.

‘No’, Mycroft said, softly.

//

‘Anthea, hand me the file behind you, please’, Molly said, staring at her phone distractedly.

**I saw you first.**

Molly felt like crying. She had never replied to a single text, never encouraged them in any way, yet, several months later, they were still happening, and if anything they were escalating- she had received an email threat rather than a text one yesterday. She felt hounded in her own home, her own life, and she….she had to tell someone.

‘Alice’, Anthea reminded her, handing her the file. The woman looked at Molly with a blank face, looking between her and the phone, as if asking or challenging Molly for something.

The anger Molly felt for Anthea hadn’t died over the last few months, not really. It became worse at times, instead, because Anthea was a reminder of things she couldn’t have, a life she didn’t understand, and now that she hadn’t seen Mycroft in such a long time, a reminder of how alone she felt, despite having Tom.

She wasn’t going to tell Anthea.

‘Yoohoo!’, came a voice from the door, a knock carrying into the room a second after. ‘Delivery for Molly from mystery boy again!’

Molly groaned entirely, but not before catching Anthea’s smile.

Mycroft had…Molly hadn’t seen Mycroft, not properly, since the confrontation so long ago. But while Mycroft seemed to have decided a face-to-face meeting wasn’t wise, over the last few months he had sent flowers, too many flowers, as though they could solve some of the bad blood between them.

Molly had to admit they were beautiful flowers, though. And then the later ones started coming with messages.

**_You have not eaten in 8 hours, 23 minutes and 45 seconds. Anthea likes French onion soup._ **

**_Do not interchange trains at Bank station, there will be severe delays in the evening. Anthea has a car._ **

**_I am told that red roses are romantic or symbolise a love for making soap. You may interpret these as you wish._ **

**_You are special._ **

Molly gulped hard at the last particular last one. _You are special._ Those words now meant everything, but also scared her down to her bones. She shouldn’t feel like this while being engaged to someone else. Molly rubbed her eyes as something in her stomach twisted.

Laura was beaming at her.

‘What does Tom think of these flowers, then?’, she asked, curiously. ‘I can’t imagine him being happy with you being seduced by another man.’

Anthea, who was standing silently behind Molly, snorted. Molly frowned at her.

‘He, er,’ Molly said. ‘He doesn’t know. I don’t know who-erm, who sends these flowers.’

Molly wondered whether Anthea’s phone clicking had actually become more pronounced or whether she was imagining it.

‘Secret admirer, I like it’, Laura said, and then looked concerned. ‘But really, Molly, you don’t look well.’

Molly blinked at her, and looked at Anthea, who had stopped playing with her phone. Molly knew Anthea was scanning her, quietly.

‘I-I’m fine!’, Molly said.

‘You look pale’, Laura pointed out. ‘Is it Tom? Did you have a fight? You know, I always say that wedding planning actually makes people fight more than less.’

Molly rubbed her temples again, and tried to stop, just stop thinking so much- the text messages, Mycroft’s flowers, everything that she felt….it was all too much.

‘I-I don’t know if me and Tom are going to work out’, Molly found herself saying, and then gasped. She knew she must have looked terrified now, a mess, and she couldn’t look up at Laura, she couldn’t, and for the life of her she couldn’t think of why she said _this_ to Tom’s friend, the person that had introduced them in the first place.

Suddenly, Anthea was at her side.

‘You should sit down,’ she said, simply.

‘I’m fine’, Molly said, and looked up, dreading the look on Laura’s face.

What she didn’t expect was a look of cool understanding and almost…..blankness.

‘I see’, Laura said, her voice oddly monotone. ‘It happens to the best of us.’

‘I h-haven’t’, Molly said. ‘I haven’t s-said anything to him yet, so please….’

Laura looked at her, her face still carefully blank in a way that scarily reminded her of Mycroft. Molly looked at Anthea, who also seemed to be observing Laura, her expression not giving anything away.

‘Yes’, Laura said. ‘Of course. I won’t say anything.’

‘I’m sorry’, Molly tried, her hands trembling. ‘I do love him, I just…..can’t.’

Laura nodded and put the basket of flowers in her hands down on a table, and left.

Molly breathed out hard and, her legs trembling, leaned against an autopsy table. This was it, she knew. She has to break it off with Tom. Before it got worse, before she ruined his life. She would be alone again, but she could do that. She had been alone long before Tom, and she could be long after he left her.

Anthea stood in front of her, her face stoic and carefully neutral.

‘Give me your phone’, she said, calmly. Molly stared at her, eyes wide.

‘W-What?’, Molly said. ‘No!’

Anthea looked at her, and for a moment, her face twisted into something that looked like anger, concern and slight resignation.

_Resignation to what?_

Anthea spoke.

‘I know….I know you’re angry with me’, Anthea said, quietly, and Molly looked away from her, her heart twisting. ‘You have every right to be. You needed a friend. And I wasn’t a friend.’

Molly said nothing, not trusting herself not to cry.

‘But you need to let me help you’, Anthea said. ‘I’m not working here just to help you, you know. I’m supposed to be watching over you, in case you fall into danger or bad hands. How am I supposed to do that if you’re being a danger to yourself?’

Molly jerked her head towards the assistant, feeling as through fire was coursing through her veins.

‘I am not a danger to myself’, Molly said, fiercely. ‘I don’t need your help, I don’t….I don’t want Mycroft’s help. I’m fine!’

‘I’m not Mycroft, but even I can read some things’, Anthea insisted, looking angry again. ‘You’ve been progressively looking more tired and ill over time. At first I thought maybe you were having cold feet over Tom- and of course you were. You and Mycroft are both so very stupid.’

Molly gaped at her.

‘But now you look pale and tired every time you look at your phone’, Anthea said. ‘I would respect privacy, for your sake and because Mycroft asked me to give you some, but I happen to know that boyfriends and fiancés aren’t supposed to make someone look as though they feel sick when they text them. So either Tom is….abusive in some way or someone else is texting you. Which is it?’

Molly found she couldn’t speak, and placed a hand over her trouser pocket, where her phone was. A stupid move, she knew, because Anthea’s eyes flickered straight there.

‘You forget what I do, Molly’, Anthea said, her voice becoming threatening. Molly’s hands felt clammy. ‘Give me the phone.’

‘Anthea, please’, Molly said. ‘I just want to be left alone.’

Molly moved away from Anthea, pushing past the woman, only to be pulled back by her arm.

‘No’, Anthea said, shortly. Molly frowned at her, and tried to pull her arm away, only to find herself hurting her arm.

‘Ow!’, Molly said. ‘Let me go! Just-Let me go!’

‘Give me your phone’, Anthea repeated, calmly, not seeming to be straining herself at all at holding a resistant person’s arm.

‘No! Get off!’, Molly shrieked, and tried to wrestle her arm out of Anthea’s grip.

Wrong move. Molly blinked, and suddenly felt a slight pain in her back, and found herself tumbling towards the floor, the weight of the phone in her pocket gone.

Molly struggled to sit up, and looked up at Anthea, who was now looking through her phone. Molly felt hot tears clouding her eyes with….anger, fear, shame. So many things, so many things she couldn’t name, expect that they had been all she had in the last few months, in the nightmare that was slowly becoming her life.

Anthea looked pale. She looked down at Molly, but made no effort to help Molly stand up.

‘I’m sorry’, Anthea said, actually sounding like she was. ‘But Mycroft needs to see these.’

Molly’s tears fell down her face, long hot streaks of emotions Molly couldn’t name anymore.

‘I have never had a best friend’, Anthea confessed, from above her. ‘And I will always be your friends. Even if I’m bad at it.’

Molly said nothing, silent tears falling down her face as Anthea walked away.

_Now this is my rock bottom,_ Molly thought, bitterly.

****

**TBC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all for now, folks! Hope you liked that! I will try my very, very, VERY best to get the next chapter out by next Monday at the latest (I am determined), so you won’t have too long a wait. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter- comments are love and encourage the plotbunny greatly! Seriously though, it does, as I’ve been having a tough time of it lately, and you guys have been seriously lovely and probably the only reason I’m still writing this. Thank you!
> 
> If you have prompts for me, questions or generally want to (non-evil) stalk me, find me at: bloglavictoire.tumblr.com.


	19. Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse before they get better. Or they get even worse.
> 
> In which Sherlock and Anthea find a middle ground, and Mycroft and Molly finally, really, actually talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright infringements intended. 
> 
> Author's Notes: So…..I’m back! Sorry for the long wait, but as I promised- this story is not abandoned. Not even close.  
> This chapter is a big one, and is mainly plot-driven and is driving towards the end of the story. Also, as a warning, you guys should know that while the ratings and warnings on this story don’t apply much to this chapter, they will once again from the next chapter. Remember: M rating is not only for sex, guys.  
> Also….don’t look too much into the plot of this story. I tried to be clear and lay pavestones as the story went along, but I don’t think it worked as well as I hoped. Meh. 
> 
> This chapter was beta’d by the lovely Adalind, who is bright and one of the most awesome people ever. Any mistakes left in this story are solely due to my laziness. I’ll give it another run through in the morning. 
> 
> Finally, this chapter is titled after the song ‘Mercy’ by Hurts. Love this song, love this band. 
> 
> EDIT: final note but just as a reminder- even though this chapter doesn’t seem like it, it is fitted into series 3 canon. This entire story is fitted into Sherlock series 3 canon, but with mollcroft. Basically. This chapter takes place in between ‘Sign of three’ (s03e02) and ‘His Last Vow’ (s03e03).
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (Book cover image by Winterkoala)

**NOW**

Mycroft analysed the situation in front of him. He was a government official, a consummate professional.

The bright red and blue sirens rang through his brain, through his body, the lights washing through his eyes without really entering them.

Mycroft found that he could not think. His brain, as he had always feared, was finally failing him. His hand was bleeding and so was his head, but Mycroft found he did not care.

He stared at his team and the police in their black apparel, Anthea in what had been a sophisticated blue dress, but was now a creased mess, wet with rain. Her fingers were covered in gunpowder.

Mycroft looked up at the building in front of him, and felt his umbrella slip away from his fingers, his hair fall in front of his eyes.

Molly’s flat was a few floors up, and filled with detectives, Mycroft knew. Sherlock was up there. 

‘Sir’.

Mycroft looked at Anthea who was now walking towards him.

 **Read:** Her lips were bloodless; her eyes openly filled with something Mycroft couldn’t understand…..sorrow?

Mycroft was numb with comprehension.

‘Molly?’, Mycroft asked, blankly and Anthea breathed in harshly.

‘She’s gone’, his assistant said, her voice high and strained. She stretched out a hand towards Mycroft, and he looked at it.

In Anthea’s hand was a pyjama vest covered in blood.

//

**BEFORE**

Molly was numb, wind running through her hair, the stale smell of exhaust gas, rain and river water going into her nostrils. She breathed it in, taking it in. Behind her she could hear the buses and bustle of people going about their lives, chattering and ticking their heels as they did so. She envied them a little, for being so care-free, when all she could feel was the pit in her stomach.

In front of her was a body of water, the Thames. Molly looked at the water, the gentle waves rippling, soothing her a little.

On her right hand side was Sherlock, his coat flowing majestically, as it always did, his dark curls moving in the direction of the breeze. His pale skin was becoming more luminous as the sun set, a contrast against the dark, the dark leather of his gloves standing out against the pale cigarette held. Molly stood beside him in her unshapely coat and hat, disappearing into the darkness.

Sherlock blew out smoke into the wind.

 _Not low tar,_ Molly thought, dully, but found she didn’t care.

‘Have you ever thought that maybe you chose Tom because he was easier than the alternative?’, Sherlock said suddenly.

Molly closed her eyes, the burning beneath her eyelids increasing. Sherlock knew why she had abandoned work, why she was so far away from where she would be normally in her day-to-day routine. She didn’t know how he had found her, she didn’t care- she didn’t- and she knew that he must know what had happened with Anthea, by now. She knew he must know by now about the text messages, the stalking, how weak she was to not be able to cope with it. It was pathetic, and Sherlock was not one to shy away from telling her so.

This was the man, Molly thought with a painful lump in her throat, that had taken on a network of criminals in a foreign country. The man that had devised a plan when all the odds were against him, had jumped off a roof for his friends without a second thought. She was the girl, Molly knew, the little, stupid girl that couldn’t handle a few mean text messages.

 

Except they _weren’t_ just mean text messages, Molly knew. They made her miserable, feel sodden to her core. Worry had become her second skin, the loneliness of wanting to tell someone, but knowing she shouldn’t- because for God’s sake, she was a grown woman, she should be able to _help herself._

The emptiness of missing Anthea more than the sister Molly did have, the anger of being abandoned, the numbness of being literally trodden on and having her privacy invaded. Anthea knew her secret and, now, so would Mycroft.

_Have you ever thought that maybe you chose Tom because he was easier than the alternative?_

Sherlock was looking at Molly, with curiosity, she knew. She could feel it, even with her eyes closed.

She opened her eyes but didn’t look at the detective.

‘W-What do you mean?’, Molly said, wishing her voice was more steady.

‘When you were in love with me’, Sherlock said, ignoring Molly’s flinch. ‘Your side of the story was quite easy. You were in love with me, I was most definitely not in love with you. You sighed and swooned, I said no, and that was the end of it.’

Molly looked at him then, blinking.

‘I guess so’, Molly said, slowly, because in the end….that had been true.

‘With Mycroft, it is more difficult’, Sherlock said, matter-of-factedly. ‘ There is more of a grey area now because, with your non-existent deduction abilities, while you believe that he does not care for others, something has obviously….changed.’

Molly looked away again. ‘Sherlock’, she said, softly.

‘You are right’, Sherlock said, louder than before. His tone was still nonchalant, but there was an odd tinge of bitterness to it. ‘Mycroft doesn’t care about people. It is not in his nature. Like it is not in mine.’

Molly said nothing, but the pit in her stomach became wider.

‘But you’re also wrong’, Sherlock said, and Molly looked at him slowly, seeing him swallow hard. ‘As much as I don’t understand how it came to be, Mycroft does care about you.’

Something fluttered and burst in Molly’s heart, and she willed it to stop, to quieten, to leave her alone.  Sherlock looked at her, his face grim.

‘This is why I told you to stay away from him’, Sherlock said. ‘I know my brother. Mycroft in love will only serve to make him more dangerous. My brother prides himself on his stability, and that ceases to exist while he remains in possession of….foreign emotions.’

Molly froze, her eyes wide. _In love?_

 ‘I don’t know how you did it’, Sherlock said, his voice still loud and bitter. ‘Caring is not an advantage. That is what Mycroft has always said. I have ample evidence for it.’

Molly thought of John, his marriage, Sherlock’s consequent, obvious loneliness.

‘John is still your friend, Sherlock,’ Molly said, gently, feeling weary. ‘But maybe….caring isn’t always the easiest ….path to take.’

Sherlock laughed derisively and threw his cigarette on the floor, stamping on it.

‘You don’t believe that,’ Sherlock said. ‘You would rather bleed to death being in love. Mycroft would rather run away, lest he pricked his finger. That is why, my dear Molly, you and my brother are a match never to be made.’

Molly swallowed the harsh words. Slowly, she nodded, more to herself than at Sherlock.

‘You know that’, Sherlock said, and suddenly his voice changed, seeming almost…admiring. ‘So you chose someone easier.’

Molly snapped her head towards Sherlock. ‘What?’

‘The more understandable, clear answer, the one everyone expects’, Sherlock said. ‘A bit boring, obviously, but safe nonetheless. Mycroft was the rash choice, the flight risk, a bad option. So you chose Tom, safe and boring Tom-‘

‘I didn’t-‘, Molly started.

‘Natural selection, Molly’, Sherlock said, interrupting her. ‘Always choose the mate with the characters you wish to carry down the line. Tom has those in abundance, while Mycroft would rather give up cake forever than produce offspring. And God forbid if the ginger hair gene sprouts up again-‘

‘-What?’, Molly said, incredulously.

‘It’s a horrifying thought’, Sherlock agreed and Molly spluttered. ‘But you chose right with Tom.’

I didn’t’, Molly started, breathing. ‘I didn’t choose him because he’s easier t-than Mycroft!’

‘Why then?’, Sherlock said, looking irritated.

‘Because….’, Molly said, feeling limp. ‘I love him. I do.’

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

‘I will not claim to understand love’, Sherlock said. ‘And I don’t want to. But if love is what makes you look as you do now, then I was right to wash my hands of it.’

Molly was silent, feeling more miserable than ever.

‘You chose the easier option’, Sherlock reiterated carefully. ‘You are not in love. You looked for Mycroft’s antithesis, and found Tom.’

Molly looked at the river, the wind rushing through her hair. Sherlock stood silently next to her.

‘He won’t leave you alone now’, Sherlock said. ‘Now he knows you’re in danger.’

‘I ….I don’t know why I’m being targeted,’ Molly said, honestly, tiredly. ‘I haven’t done anything to deserve this.’

‘You haven’t done anything to deserve this’, Sherlock repeated. His voice was quiet, and curious. Molly looked at him, confused. ‘You haven’t done anything to deserve this. _Exactly_.’

‘Sherlock?’, Molly said, not understanding. ‘W-What do you mean?’

Sherlock wasn’t looking at her anymore, his face graver than she had seen in a long time, since his fall, since everything had become bitter, loud and maddening inside her head.

‘I have to go’, Sherlock said, lost in his own mind, in the world that he built in his mind. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock had already gone.

//

 **Read:** Anthea was staring at him again. She was situated exactly two metres away from him south, perched on a chair. Her Blackberry was quiet, indicating that she was otherwise pre-occupied, most likely in her own thoughts rather than any work. She was scrapping her heels on the carpet in a repetitive fashion, a particular action that annoyed Sherlock, the few times his assistant and his brother were forced to occupy the same space. Scrapping her heels, she would think of Sherlock, and Sherlock reminds Anthea of Molly. The nervous tick also suggested her worry, most likely pertaining to Molly. When had Molly managed to engrave herself so deeply in both of their lives?

The scrapping continued, the sound wearing into Mycroft’s brain, echoing in his ears.

Stalking. Attacks. Bombs.

And now… text messages. Threatening text messages from someone who knew too much about Molly for it to be a coincidence.

_There is no such thing as coincidence. Coincidence is a farce used to manipulate weaker minds into doing one’s bidding. This is no coincidence. Molly is in danger because of….Sherlock._

And so by default, this was all Mycroft’s fault. He has failed. Again.

Mycroft wished he could put his head in his arms, and rock himself back and forwards. The overwhelming need to do so filled him, but he would not. He squared his shoulders and sat up straight at his desk.

He was a government official. The country’s last line of defence against political catastrophes and suicide. He had, and he most definitely would, deal with worse.

_How could Molly not tell him?_

His eyes burnt with anger, with a fury he didn’t know he could feel- _Mycroft knew everything._ Yet when it came to Molly, to Dr Hooper, he sometimes, more often than not, found that he did not. If this was sentiment, the so-called emotion that the rest of the world prided in, that he most certainly did not understand, and made him wonder how the human race had lasted so long. It was not an evolutionary trait to be passed on.

Molly’s face swam in front of him, a crystal prism of colours against the grey that filled Mycroft’s mind. Her face when he came back from Serbia with Sherlock, her face when he had angered her, somehow, yet again, her face, her hair on her bed, the softness of her skin-

Mycroft shook his head. _Enough._

He stood up suddenly.

‘Sir?’, Anthea said from behind him, also standing up.

‘I have some errands to run’, Mycroft said, feeling tired. ‘Keep on searching through Molly’s phone, if you will. Also, upgrade Molly’s security to ultra, please.’

Anthea stared at him, sitting down slowly.

‘She won’t like that’, Anthea said, quietly. Mycroft glanced once in her direction, and Anthea looked away. ‘Putting more cameras on Molly will make everything worse. She doesn’t trust me and she is not willing to talk to you. If she finds out you’re watching her, she’ll only refuse to cooperate.’

The throbbing of his head, the quiet fury that refused to leave him intensified.

‘I will make her talk’, Mycroft said, harshly. ‘She’s not as stubborn as you presume her to be.’

Anthea was quiet for a moment before speaking, her voice soft.

‘I’ve known her as long as you have’, Anthea said. ‘I’m her friend too.’

Mycroft’s head pulsed again. _Is that what he and Molly were? Friends? Mycroft did not have….friends._

‘So no, she’s not stubborn’, Anthea continued. Mycroft looked at her. ‘She’s worse. She’s loyal.’

_Loyal to Sherlock. To Tom. To what she thinks is right. She could not be more mistaken._

‘That’s how I knew you two would get along’, Anthea said, her voice almost inaudible. The words spun over Mycroft’s head, and his eyes closed with the burden. ‘You’re polar opposites in the smallest magnetic field in the world.’

 **Read:** Anthea knew too much for her own good. Her eyes were large, turned downwards, suggesting she thought her words were intense, too much for him to handle. She was wrong, of course. She assumed to know Mycroft. Mycroft did not….he was not a sentimental man.

‘Should I arrange a car?’, Anthea said.

He needed to clear his head. He needed to…..build a strategy, a plan. This was what he did for a living, what he was good at.

‘She will talk’, Mycroft said, roughly, turning his back on his assistant and walking past the umbrella stand.

His mind melded around images of Molly, refusing to let go, all the while knowing- subconsciously, intelligently- that a strategic plan would never help him when it came to the small pathologist that had somehow wormed herself into his head.

His mind pieced his memories like a kaleidoscope. Mycroft got into his car, and opened the door to his mind palace.

//

He had made a mistake.

He had made a mistake( _he did not make mistakes as a rule, he could not afford it with his chosen profession, nor with such a meddling brother)._

Sherlock stood in front of Anthea, outside Mycroft’s office _(why was Mycroft’s office so far away from Baker Street? Probably just to spite him, that was just like Mycroft)._

Her face was shocked, angry _(potentially, as Anthea had never been his biggest fan, the most likely out of all of the people he knew to stab him if they had the slightest chance. A 98.6% chance, in all probability. She was shocked, mostly likely due to the fact he didn’t make coming to Mycroft’s place of work a habit. She was sad, though, nervous, fidgety. Why was she fidgeting? Mycroft’s assistant did not fidget)._

‘Why are you here?’, Anthea demanded _(no pleasantry exchange necessary, good, Sherlock hated that particular social convention, more than he hated most of them- Anthea was still fidgeting, clicking her heels. Unlike her normal behaviour, suggesting she was under stress of some sort. Molly- was she worried about Molly? What a stupid thought- but Sherlock never thought of stupid things. Anthea is worried about Molly?)._

‘What have you found on Molly’s phone?’, Sherlock said, his voice blank and firm. Anthea stared back at him, brown eyes on blue.

He would not lose this challenge _(damn Mycroft for choosing an assistant that was even more stubborn than him- oh yes, she had definitely found something on Molly’s phone, of course she had, he could see it from the way she moved her little finger)._

‘Nothing of consequence’, Anthea spat out, looking away from him. ‘I just have my concerns. Which have nothing to do with you. Mycroft isn’t here, so you can leave now.’

Sherlock looked down at her, narrowing his eyes _(her tone suggested worry, and not just about Molly- the nail varnish on her little finger was chewed off, the pattern of the remaining varnish proposed that she had done so quite recently. She had been worrying about Molly for a while now, several days in fact, but the nail varnish was gone due to a different reason. Mycroft isn’t here- where had he gone? Mycroft’s behaviour had been erratic of late- he had even gone undercover in Serbia for goodness’s sake. Mycroft was not an unstable person- Anthea is worried about Mycroft? Yes, there it was- her hair had fallen out of its bun-design-thing, and she had yet to notice. Mycroft had been gone for two hours)._

‘What did you find on Molly’s phone’? Sherlock prompted again. Anthea screwed her eyes at him, annoyance clear on her face.

‘I need to talk to Mycroft first’, Anthea said. ‘This has nothing to do with you. Where’s your little sidekick?’

‘On his sex holiday. This is about Molly’, Sherlock said. ‘You have something to tell Mycroft. I have something to tell Mycroft. Mycroft is not here and not likely to come back soon. I suggest you tell me whatever it is that you think is too idiotic to tell me, but you feel may appeal to Mycroft’s current fragile state of mind.’

‘Mycroft’s state of mind isn’t fragile’, Anthea said, her voice angry again. ‘He is worried about Molly, as much as he pretends he isn’t.’

‘I never thought I would see the day when Mycroft offends his own advice’, Sherlock said. ‘Caring isn’t-‘

‘-An advantage, I know’, Anthea finished, looking bored. ‘Shut up and look at this.’

Anthea sat down at her desk and pulled up a page on her screen as Sherlock moved to stand behind her.

‘If I’m right, then we’re all idiots to have missed this’, Anthea said, her expression and voice blank.

‘You can’t be right’, Sherlock said. ‘I’m never _wrong_.’

Anthea looked up at him _(curious, questioning- Anthea cared a great deal more about Molly and Mycroft than even she knew. It appeared Anthea had also fallen for the trap otherwise known as sentiment. When had he become the sensible one in the convoluted quadratic equation that was now his life?)._

‘Why do you need to see Mycroft?’

//

Mycroft opened his eyes, the air in the car stale and icy.

A woman sat on the seat in front of him, her pale skin contrasting against the rich dark leather, her lips a deep blood red. She wore Sherlock’s coat and little else.

Mycroft despaired at his mind palace.

‘Aw, poor Mycroft Holmes’, Irene Adler cooed, moving closer to him. ‘Turns out the Ice Man isn’t made of ice after all.’

Mycroft looked away, and said nothing.

‘Who did you expect to turn up?’, The woman said. ‘In your mind, I’m the closest thing to sentiment you have.’

Mycroft jerked his head at her. ‘I do not feel sentiment for you.’

The woman laughed.

‘I never said that you did,’ she said, smiling her trademark smile. ‘But I’m a manipulator. Like you. Like Sherlock. We ran rings around each other, Sherlock and I. Seduced each other, or as close as. You watched. Don’t worry- I like an audience.’

She moved closer to Mycroft.

‘But the reason I’m here is because you don’t understand emotions’, She whispered in his ear. ‘And seduction is the closest thing to sentiment you can understand. But you are a genius, aren’t you Mycroft Holmes? You’ve already figured out that emotion is key to what’s happening to Molly, why Molly is in danger. Molly is innocent, everyone knows that. A much better person than you’ll ever be. So why is she being targeted? By whom?’

Mycroft closed his eyes, his eyes swimming with images.

‘What does it say about you that the closest thing in your head related to emotions is me? A woman that uses seduction as a weapon?’, The woman said, her voice dark.

Irene Adler sat back down, crossing her legs. Mycroft frowned at her.

‘You’re on your own’, She smirked. ‘There is nothing in your mind palace that can help you with Molly.’

Mycroft signalled the driver to stop, and got out of the car.

‘Think, Ice Man, Think’, Irene said, a smile in her voice. ‘Save Molly Hooper.’

//

‘Before Serbia, nearly a year after my….fall,  I came across the more dark sections of Moriarty’s network’, Sherlock began, looking at Anthea, who was frowning at him. ‘The deeper I got, the clearer it became that I had hit the centre of the organisation, the covert underbelly of the network. Drugs, sex trafficking, espionage, Moriarty has people involved in it all. I needed to get in, strike the central nerve, shut it down, and get out. So I went in under cover.’

Anthea was typing on her computer, no longer watching _(she was listening though. I never start a sentence without a point. She knows this)._

Sherlock sighed, hating what he had to say next.

‘I miscalculated how large this network was. How deep I’d have to go’, Sherlock said. ‘They figured out that I wasn’t one of them.  I was….punished, imprisoned. Then they sent a man to me, who knew who I was.’

‘How did he know?’, Anthea asked sharply _(Blunt. At any other time Sherlock would have welcomed the simplicity of conversation, but they were talking about his…his failure)._

‘I don’t know’, Sherlock said, between gritted teeth. ‘He knew about John.’

( _John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. Everyone)._

‘He knew about….’ Anthea started.

‘As time went on, he wasn’t interested in John anymore. Or Lestrade. He began to ask about Molly’, Sherlock said. ‘I don’t know why nor how he knew. My friendship with John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were largely public, my enmity with Mycroft obvious. Molly’s role in general as well as her part in my presumed death was meant to be insignificant. She did not need to be protected. Molly was supposed to be unknown…..hidden in plain sight.’

‘You think that Moriarty’s network is interested in Molly?’ Anthea asked, looking frustrated. ‘But why?’

_(Moriarty chose her to get through to me. That fact had always…..bothered Sherlock. Why had Sherlock thought Molly insignificant if Moriarty had not? No point thinking too much about this. Insignificant. Moriarty is dead)._

‘Moriarty is dead’, Sherlock declared loudly. Anthea looked at him blankly. ‘So is his network. But I think Molly’s current predicament might be linked to what I just told you.’

‘I’ll need you to give me the full details of anyone and everyone that you came across in those 2 years that may have known your true identity’, Anthea demanded. ‘I know Mycroft is soft on you, but don’t you dare play with me.’

Sherlock raised his eyebrow _(Had Mycroft’s assistant become more….demanding while he had been gone? Before his fall, Anthea had barely said two words in front of him, both words in contempt. Some things did not change)._

‘I later found out the name of that man’, Sherlock continued. ‘His name was Stephan Baskov. One of Moriarty’s henchmen. He was presumed dead after I set their headquarters in Volgograd on fire’.

Anthea stopped typing on the computer and looked at Sherlock.

‘That’s the man that attacked Molly a few months after your funeral’, Anthea said, bluntly. ‘He’s supposed to be dead.’

//

The knock on the door startled Molly, nearly making her drop her tea cup.

It was the weekend, and Molly wasn’t expecting any visitors. Tom was at work and- to be honest- Molly was glad, grateful for a little time alone. She knew it sounded bad, to be happy to be away from her fiancé, but everyone needed some time for themselves, didn’t they, so it wasn’t really that unusual.

She looked down at her clothes- a light pink vest and spotty pyjama shorts. She pulled on a dressing gown and rubbed her eyes, not too fussed about her appearance. She was tired, weary and –ironically- horribly lonely. But it wasn’t the sort of loneliness that anyone could help her with. It was the loneliness she had always dealt with, the type that made her feel isolated in a crowded room.

The knock on her door grew louder, and more persistent.

‘Wait a second!’, Molly called, fiddling with her keys. She clumsily opened the door, only for it to be thrown open and then slammed shut again.

Molly felt her heart drop as Mycroft closed the door and turned to her.

‘M-Mycroft?’ Molly said, hating the way her voice trembled. ‘W-What do you want?’

Mycroft looked down at her, her clothes, saying nothing, and Molly blushed from the tip of her toes to the roots of the hairs on her head. He looked…ruffled, by the wind, by stress, if Molly knew anything about stress. She breathed out heavily when she realised how close they standing, the way Mycroft just looked down at her, his eyes bright and alive with…..anger?

Molly gulped and looked away as she attempted to walk backwards, only for Mycroft to grab her by her arms and pull her back. His blazer jacket and tie were missing, replaced by a longer, dark brown coat, his waistcoat underneath creased and half unbuttoned. It was all so…..so unlike Mycroft that Molly felt as if the shock had somehow become electric. It was the only way to explain the tingling in her arms where Mycroft held her, the first touch between them since-

‘Let me go!’, Molly squeaked. Mycroft ignored her, fury radiating from his body with a warmth that was burning the smaller woman. Molly had forgotten how tall Mycroft was, how much bigger he could seem by just casting a look in her direction.

‘Why did you not tell me?’, Mycroft said, his voice rough and darker somehow. This was a side of Mycroft Molly had not seen before, the raging temper, the raised vein on his throat.

Molly tried to remove her arms again, almost succeeding this time.

‘I don’t need to tell you anything’, Molly said. ‘H-Haven’t you got what you wanted? Sherlock is back now. John knows. Everyone knows. We-We don’t need talk and be….be secretive. We have nothing left to talk about.’

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, and then let go of Molly’s arms, looking at her face in contemplation.

‘You’re angry with me’, Mycroft said, his voice measured. Molly glared at him.

‘You-‘, Molly said, incredulously. ‘You only just-how can you have only just realised that?’

‘Why are you angry with me?’, Mycroft continued, his voice still strangely-scarily-even.

Molly didn’t know if she wanted to slap him or…or

‘Of course I’m angry with you!’, Molly yelled. Her hair was starting to fall from its plait, and she knew her face was red. Molly knew she looked a mess- she _was_ a mess. Her entire life was a mess, had been a mess ever since she had met Sherlock. It had only gone from a mess into total chaos after she had met Mycroft.

‘You-You were supposed to be different’, Molly said, feeling stupid.

Mycroft looked confused.

‘Why?’, he asked, blankly.

Molly looked at him.

‘I don’t want to talk to you anymore’, Molly said, looking away. ‘Please leave me alone.’

Molly could feel his eyes on her as she walked away, the heat of his glaze burning her neck.

‘I want you to break up with Tom’, he said, suddenly.

//

‘Mycroft always does what he says he’s going to do’, Sherlock said. ‘I should know. He got mummy to send me to boarding school a year early because I gave his red velvet cupcake to Red Beard.’

Anthea ignored him, glaring at her screen.

‘It says that Baskov’s execution was stayed through the British embassy,’ Anthea said, disbelief clear in her voice. ‘Some Parliamentarian called Sebastian Moran got the PM to pass it. How does Moran know Baskov?’

‘Why didn’t Mycroft know about it?’ Sherlock said, frustrated, looking at his phone. ‘Where the _hell_ is Mycroft? The one time I actually need him to stick his fat nose in my business, and he goes missing.’

_(His umbrella is still in the umbrella stand. Blatantly obvious that he went to see Molly. Molly. Molly needs to know how much danger she’s in. Now. Sherlock needed to think, to deduce)._

‘We don’t need Mycroft. I just need a few seconds-‘, Sherlock started, and then saw Anthea’s face. ‘What?’

‘Tom works as a liaison to Moran’, Anthea said. ‘I remember reading it when we vetted him. Is that a coincidence?’

Sherlock’s brain whirred.

‘Nothing is ever a coincidence,’ Sherlock said, deep in thought.

//

Molly stared at Mycroft, bewildered.

‘Why?’, Molly said, her voice full of….full of anger, wretchedness and _hope._

But God, the hope. Molly hated herself now, more than she ever had, for hoping, still wishing for Mycroft to want her, to see her. She was sick and tired of being invisible, being targeted and threatened for other people’s sake- because, really, she wasn’t worth anything by herself.

Molly couldn’t take the pain of it anymore.

‘Why should I break up with Tom?’, Molly asked, edging closer to Mycroft now. She knew she shouldn’t, like a man with waxen wings shouldn’t fly close to the sun, but she couldn’t help, _hated_ that she couldn’t help it. ‘Tom is good for me…..he loves me.’

‘You do not love him,’ Mycroft said, simply, his eyes dark now as he watched her. Molly felt her face heat up, her body too, and looked up at him. She wasn’t scared little Molly mouse anymore, she wasn’t.

‘You can’t tell me how I feel’, Molly said. ‘Y-You might be able to read people, just like that, but you can’t tell me how to feel. You can’t.’

Mycroft’s eyes flashed suddenly, and Molly had to stop herself from flinching. And then- with no warning, no notice at all- Mycroft’s hands were at her waist, his mouth pressed again her ear.

Molly gasped, and tried to move away, trying to remember why moving away from Mycroft was a good idea when his breath was hot against the side of her face, his chest close enough to hear his heartbeat.

‘You forget, Dr Hooper’, Mycroft said, his voice quiet and no longer measured. Molly shivered at the sound. ‘You forget that I’m trained to tell people how to feel, how to act.’

Mycroft moved one hand to Molly’s wrist, circling the entirety of it with his long fingers. He pressed his forefingers on the underside of her wrist.

‘I can feel your pulse,’ Mycroft said, his voice still quiet, his breath now at her neck as his mouth moved down. ‘I can hear your breathing, practically hear your heartbeat.’

Molly tried to jerk her hand away from him, but Mycroft held on, his grasp strong yet somehow still gentle. As though Molly could move away, if she had the strength, if she wanted to.

Molly closed her eyes, breathing heavily. _She didn’t want to._

‘You are not attracted to Tom. You are attracted to me’, Mycroft said. ‘You have been for a long time, if not from the beginning, from the moment that we met.’

Molly opened her eyes and jerked away fully this time, moving her hands away from him with a force she didn’t know she had. Mycroft fell back a step, his eyes focussed on her, and Molly knew she couldn’t look at him now, not properly.

Hot tears burned her eyes, threatening to fall and Molly willed herself, forced herself, to not cry, not now, not in front of Mycroft. _She wouldn’t do it._

‘Why do you care?’, Molly said, knowing her voice was thick and heavy with unshed tears. ‘W-Why would you do this to me now? When I’m _engaged?’_

Mycroft said nothing, and Molly couldn’t help herself- she looked at him. Mycroft was still stood in the same place, his face blank as a slate. Suddenly, Molly was full of fury, and her tears bubbled over.

‘You left me!’, Molly said. ‘Y-You left, without saying goodbye, anything, without a single contact to tell me you’re okay! And you don’t know why _I’m angry?’_

Mycroft seemed to make an aborted attempt to move towards her, his expression still _stupidly_ clouded over, and Molly wanted to rip it off, rip up of the smoke screen that Mycroft seemed to have built around himself, like an impenetrable castle wall.

‘You wanted to help Sherlock, I-I get it, I do’, Molly said, her voice full of tears. She looked a mess, she knew, more unattractive than ever, and she knew, in her mind, that she was never up to Mycroft’s standards anyway. ‘But why couldn’t you let me help, let me _see?_ Or just let me know you were still alive, that Sherlock was still alive?’

Mycroft opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

‘But for-for some reason you kept watching me, even when you were gone’, Molly said. ‘All the cameras, even in front of the hospital, following me- Why?’

He stood still, like a statue, unfeeling and resolute.

‘What cameras in front of the hospital?’, Mycroft said, his voice croaking.

‘You love Sherlock’, Molly said, her body shaking. Her voice broke, and came out in a whisper.  ‘Why can’t you love me like that?’

The horrendous silence that followed made the whisper sound louder than it was, bouncing off the walls, tearing through the atmosphere like a bloodied dagger.

Molly sobbed, her face in her hands as she faced Mycroft. She couldn’t believe she was breaking down like this, having this- this mental breakdown now, in front of the person she least wanted to see her like this. She wept for a few more seconds, and then tried to pull herself together. She moved her hands away from her face, her vision blurry and confused before it cleared. Mycroft’s face came into view and Molly gasped.

Mycroft looked…..wrecked.

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, his voice shaking in a way Molly didn’t know it could. ‘I only wanted to keep you safe.’

‘You wanted to keep Sherlock safe’, Molly supplied, wiping her face. ‘You want-wanted to keep yourself safe, Anthea safe-‘

‘You have no idea what I have gone through-‘, Mycroft interrupted, his voice rising, deepening. ‘You do not know-‘

‘Why don’t I know?’, Molly said loudly, going over Mycroft’s voice. ‘ _Why not?_ Why am I not enough, why am I not good enough to know what’s going on around me, why someone wants me dead-‘

‘BECAUSE IT IS MY FAULT!’

Mycroft slammed his left hand into her wall, his bellow shattering through Molly’s voice. Molly jumped, and Mycroft seemed to rise above her again, his eyes bloodshot and angry.

The silence between them was deadening.

‘What have I not done to keep you safe?’, Mycroft said, mostly to himself. ‘You- who I should never have met beyond vetting as a contact of Sherlock’s, you, who thinks she is not good enough and that I do not care, when the entire situation that currently upon us is because you are good enough and I do care!’

Molly breathed in hard as the air was punched out of her lungs, leaving her gasping.

‘I am not a sentimental man’, Mycroft said, his voice full of anger. ‘I look after my brother and his companions, to save him from himself. You, however, do not make sense. I am _not a sentimental man._ ’

Mycroft moved away, pacing away from Molly. Molly looked down at his hand, and noticed it was bleeding. Suddenly, all her anger, her fear deflated.

‘Mycroft, your hand-‘, Molly said, looking at him.

‘Stop fussing about my fucking hand’, Mycroft said, and Molly’s eyes widened- Mycroft never swore. The words sounded at odds with his accent, the way he held himself, and Molly found it hard to breathe.

‘You should let me-‘, Molly started, still shaking a little but moving forward. Mycroft looked down at her, pulling away from her as she got closer. His expression closed down, blanketed with the smoke screen again.

‘You are in danger, because of me and Sherlock’, Mycroft said. ‘Somewhere along the line, I have made an error, a rather horrific one that I should not be capable of. Somehow, something has escaped me, slipped through the cracks. You will listen to me, and do as I say from now on. You _will_ stop hiding information from me, lest you find yourself removed from this area and kept in safety.’

_Kept in safety?_

‘You can’t-‘, Molly started and stopped as Mycroft looked at her.

‘I can, and I shall’, Mycroft said, firmly. ‘I will find my error and correct it. You need not worry yourself.’

‘I’m not worried’, Molly said. ‘I just-‘

‘Caring is not an advantage’, Mycroft said, interrupting her, and Molly felt cold. ‘I will not allow you to take advantage of me. I will take care of your situation and then…’

Mycroft stopped. Molly felt like crying again.

‘I have never once tried to take advantage of you’, Molly said, her voice full of tears again. ‘Not once. How can you be so scared of the people that _love_ you?’

Mycroft stared straight at her and Molly froze.

_The people that love you._

Molly felt like dying.

They stood there silently, both gaping at each other, until the scrape of keys on Molly’s front door could be heard, and Tom walked through.

‘Molly!’, Tom said, cheerfully, ‘Why are you-‘

Tom caught site of Mycroft, who was still staring at Molly, and stopped.

‘Tom, you’ve m-met Sherlock’s brother, haven’t you?’, Molly said, wrapping her arms around herself, feeling exposed. ‘He was just-‘

‘I was simply passing on a message from Sherlock’. Mycroft interrupted, not looking at Tom. ‘I shall be leaving now. Good day.’

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but found she couldn’t. Mycroft walked past Tom, his steps hard and deliberate as he left through the door, away from her.

Tom looked at her, his face scarily as blank as Mycroft’s.

‘What was that?’, he said.

//

Mycroft got into his car.

‘Where to, Mr Holmes?’, the driver said, and Mycroft ignored him.

_How can you be so scared of the people that love you?_

People. Plural. Love. Present tense.

Mycroft’s head hurt with the implications. He did not have time to think about this now. The notion of love, of being loved, had always been one that had eluded him. He had never been interested yet it was now the one thing that he now wished he understood the most. If only simply to dissect it, to know what it meant to desire Molly in the way that he did. What they currently had was not enough. Molly was in danger, hurting, due to his and Sherlock’s errors.

He could not afford to be distracted by….emotions.

_I do care._

Mycroft closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Irene Adler was sitting in his car again, opposite him and, this time, fully dressed.

‘Try again, Mycroft Holmes’, The Woman said, sounding bored. ‘Emotion is the key, remember? Or are you not the genius to proclaim to be?’

Mycroft blinked. _Emotion is the key._

_Why would you do this now? When I’m engaged?_

_Something has escaped me, slipped through the cracks-_

_Vetted as a contact of Sherlock’s-_

_Watching me on cameras, even outside the hospital-_

‘There are no cameras outside St Bart’s’, Irene Adler said.  ‘Otherwise Sherlock’s fall could not have been executed as it had. There would have been video evidence that he had survived from the very start.’

Mycroft closed his eyes and opened them, his world unfrozen and now burning.

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, just as his car hit a wall and toppled over.

//

Sherlock looked at the photographs and information in front of him and, for the first time since falling off a building, felt numb.

Tom. Molly’s boyfriend. Was behind it all.

Masses of data from the planted camera in front of St Bart’s, which Anthea had found and intercepted, the made up files of birth dates and documents-

‘He cannot be working by himself, or only with Baskov’, Sherlock said. ‘There is someone else. There has to be. How has Mycroft not vetted Tom?’

‘He has, but only superficially’, Anthea said, irritated, her eyes rushing over the papers in front of them. ‘You should remember that Tom turned up while you and Mycroft were away.’

Anthea had her phone on her ear and was frowning, her breaths coming out hard ( _worried, bewildered, too professional to show it, wondering if it is too late, where the hell is Mycroft?)._

‘Mycroft’s not picking up his phone’, Anthea said, staring at it. ‘I’m going to arrange for someone to go get Molly. She needs to be put in protection now-‘

‘Mycroft always picks up his phone’, Sherlock said. ‘Something’s wrong.’

‘We need to go get Molly. Now’, Anthea said, stalking out of Sherlock’s view.

_Bombs and messages and phones and assassins sounded a lot like the work of-_

Suddenly, Sherlock could hear gun shots.

//

Molly looked at Tom, whose face had darkened. Molly shivered.

‘What was that, Molly?’ Tom repeated, his face all of a sudden….. Different. Unlike Tom. Somehow.

‘N-Nothing’, Molly said, still feeling cold and tired, so tired. ‘Tom, we need to talk.’

Tom was silent for a moment, before putting his hands in his pockets.

‘I think we do, too’, Tom said, finally.

Molly breathed in deeply.

‘Tom,’ Molly started. ‘I-I think we need to break up.’

The look on Tom’s face was unreadable- until it suddenly was. Molly flinched as she saw the- the anger, the cold look of disgust that she felt like she’d seen somewhere before-

‘It’s time’, Tom agreed.

He moved forward, and when Molly breathed out again, everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC.
> 
> That’s all, folks! Before someone hires an assassin to kill me, I will try to update soon! Also remember and repeat after me: ‘things get worse before they get better’. Yes they do. Let’s hope *evil grin*. Anyways, I’m going to have a lot of fun and a lot of difficulty with the next chapter. This chapter has been.....so difficult, but i tried really hard to get it write, what with Sherlock's POV being a complete bitch to write. 
> 
> Please do comment and let me know what you think- writing this story has been difficult for me for several reasons (hence the hiatus recently) and seriously, concrit, encouragement or just letting me know this story is being read helps. Thank you to those who have waited patiently and gently (or not so gently) prodded me along.  
> If you wish to stalk me (not like Molly’s stalker please), follow me on tumblr:bloglavictoire.tumblr.com


	20. And This Is Just Failing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '‘There’s a reason why it’s said that when you’re in love, you are falling. Falling is ever so close to failing’, Sherlock said. ‘And in the end, this is just failing. Now Molly will die.’
> 
> The plot of the story that has been coming all along. Please note the M rating on this chapter for violence, references to torture and other triggers. Please read the author notes before reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss. No money is being made from this. No copyright infringements intended. 
> 
> Author's Notes: Me again! This chapter was incredibly difficult to write, for reasons you will realise when you’ve read it. I have a few notes- PLEASE READ THEM BEFORE STARTING THIS CHAPTER:  
> \- This chapter sort of earns its M rating, but not for sex. The chapter contains violence, some of which is graphic, although this part is not too bad, in my opinion. Contains mentions of taking drugs, references to torture, injury, mental instability. May be triggery.  
> \- This chapter is the first half of chapter 20, hence called 20a. I decided to cut the chapter in half and flesh out each half more. This half, while still may be distressing to some viewers, does not earn the M rating as much as the next half will. You’ve been warned.  
> \- Please note that I am NOT a forensic pathologist, so please bear with me. Also, I’m pulling out the Artistic Creative License card here, so…..just keep that in mind.  
> \- I like writing Mycroft’s mind palace. So sue me.  
> \- This chapter….contains a new character. Also, please remember the OCs I have invented in this little mollcroft universe. As this story was planned ages in advance, every odd thing and person I have mentioned/invented in this universe had an intended purpose that may only now be coming to light.  
> \- Finally, and importantly, NO OFFENSE WAS MEANT in the mention of Russians, Serbians and of Bolivia in this chapter. The choice of these nationalities were totally random (except Serbia, of course, in that I was referring to Season 3 of BBC Sherlock). Please don’t take anything I say as anything of meaning or consequence. Seriously. 
> 
> I think that’s all for now. I’ll add any more notes if I think of them later. As always, this chapter was beta’d by Adalind (who is now goodgirl_astray on AO3)- thank you so much for your help and encouragement. 
> 
> Oddly enough, this chapter is not named after a song. But for those who are interested (if there is anyone), I listened to 30 Seconds To Mars’ ‘City Of Angels’ as I wrote this.  
> On with the story!

One time, a long time ago- a decade ago, to be more periodically correct- Mycroft had nearly cost himself his occupation, and his life.

Mycroft had worked hard to get to where he had now placed himself, walking over the less fortunate and the stupid. But occasionally, when all was silent in his office, Mycroft wondered if he truly deserved his status.

Mycroft has never been ‘drunk’ on power. To be drunk, one needs to lose control. One needs to surrender oneself to the mercy of another entity, other power. To own power, one needs to be larger than it. The master of power.

Ten years ago, Mycroft had been made aware of a case in Bolivia that required his attention. His actions, his words carried enormous consequences on what would happen to hundreds of thousands of innocent and not-so innocent lives, most of which never even knew it.

Mycroft had to take action.

‘Sir’, the then newly appointed Anthea said. ‘What shall I tell them is your decision?’

Mycroft weighed the options, and chose.

He chose wrong.

The next day, the next months and years, the news, the media, the hidden whispers of his superiors and subordinates would say it all.

Mycroft had watched the television the day after his decision. He watched buildings fall, children scream and cities go up in flames and ashes. _He_ had done that.

Mycroft had turned the television off and swallowed his tea. Straightened his tie.

‘Well?’, the prime minister at the time had said. ‘How could this have possibly happened? You had promised me success, Mr Holmes. They told me you were the best.’

Mycroft kept his expression blank, but inside he felt empty. A bottomless, dark abyss.

‘It had to be done,’ was all Mycroft said.

After this meeting, he would place a few men and women in the right places, and the Britain’s role in the matter was gone, disappeared from paper. Mycroft was not worried, despite the sour taste on his tongue.

But before he had left the meeting, the prime minister had looked at Mycroft one last time. Disappointment.

‘Do not trifle with me’, he had said. ‘I know….your position. But no one in this government is ever above it. I know failure when I see it, Mr Holmes.’

It was sincerely unfortunate, Mycroft thought a few years on, that this prime minister hadn’t won this next election. Very unfortunate.

Mycroft had survived this failure, his only failure. He would never fail again.

Mycroft had dreamt of screaming children and burning buildings for months.

Time sped ahead, and Mycroft grew more powerful but never drunk on power. Always in control.

Molly’s bloodied shirt appeared in his mind, the smell of tears and iron melding onto his skin.

The air in his mind palace was particularly icy, as mind-Sherlock stood before him.

‘There’s a reason why it’s said that when you’re in love, you are falling’, Sherlock said, walking closer to Mycroft, until he was right there, nose to nose. ‘After all, falling is ever so close to failing’.

Mycroft said nothing. Inside he felt empty. A bottomless dark abyss that would swallow him and everything around him. His throat was burning but he felt cold. Death cold.

This wasn’t work. This was Molly.

‘And in the end, this is just failing’, Sherlock said, blankly. ‘And now Molly will die.’

//

Molly squinted into the harsh bright light, and spluttered. Her head felt heavy, so much heavier than she remembered it being. There was a buzzing around her, punishing her ears. The blackness in the corner of her vision was fading away, but she could still barely see.

She was sitting on the floor of a stone-grey room, leaning against a wall, but only slightly. Molly felt sick and sweaty, and found herself falling sideways every once in a while. Her hands were tied together with a cable tie behind her back, and it was digging into her wrists. Her head hurt, badly and she knew she might vomit, and tried to hold back. Molly put a hand to her head, and found blood, lots of it. She then looked down, and the black in the corner of her eyes disappeared.

She was wearing a gown. A hospital patient gown, the kind tied at the back with strings, with polka dots on them. Molly frowned, still feeling nauseous. She didn’t remember going to hospital, she couldn’t remember- she couldn’t remember what was going on. Something…Something to do with- with Tom….

There was a loud bang from the opposite side of the large room, and Molly flinched hard as she heard footsteps. She looked up, wondering why the light was hurting her eyes, only to see a large metal lamp shining above her, aimed at her.

‘Hellooooo!’, said a voice from the darkness behind the lamp. Molly froze, as though ice-cold water had been thrown on her. She couldn’t breathe.

_She knew that voice._

A man with short, slicked back brown hair, and a designer suit stood in front of her, and then squatted to her level, his knees inches from her body.

‘Did you miss me, Molly?’, Moriarty said in a deep Irish accent, his voice questioning and gleeful.

Molly screamed, her voice piercing the walls, echoing around the room, her head and heart bleeding.

//

The world was dark. It buzzed around Mycroft’s ears, as though it may float away.

‘Mycroft’.

_I’m too late._

‘Sir!’

Mycroft sank back into consciousness, the darkness fading away. He blinked at his assistant, and realised he was on the ground, granite digging into his back.

Anthea held out a hand, and Mycroft took it, gingerly pulling himself up. They both looked at the Jaguar, which was now upside down, the front of the car smashed against a solid wall. Glass had fallen everywhere, and car alarms were sounding off nearby.

‘Sir-‘, Anthea started, but Mycroft walked away from her, towards the car. ‘I don’t think it’s safe to do that.’

Mycroft leaned down, looking as far as he could into the front of the car. Inside lay an unconscious man, his body folded and broken.

 **Read:** Not unconscious. The early stage of rigor mortis and position of body indicated death.

‘Sources tell me he was hired to drive an unsanctioned Jaguar identical to yours,’ Anthea said. ‘I’ve checked. With proper analysis I can probably determine that he is a suicide agent.’

A suicide agent. A person hired to die for a cause-

‘Do we have a name?’, Mycroft said, with a calm he didn’t feel.

‘No’, Anthea said. ‘I’m a bit limited at the moment. We have a problem at the office. It appears we may have been….infiltrated.’

Mycroft looked at her, questioningly. The cogs turned in his mind, and he had his answer before she opened her mouth again.

‘I have one of our agents was hired to take a hit at me’, Anthea explained, seeming more annoyed than worried. ‘She has been suitably detained for now, although she stalled us for a significant amount of time. We need to go find Molly, sir. Sherlock has already headed to her-‘

‘The positioning of the car when it hit the wall indicates that the move intended to injure me but not kill me’, Mycroft said, his mind buzzing. Then it stopped and the cogs slowed down to a halt, rigid.

‘Molly’, Mycroft said. ‘Where is Molly?’

‘Her flat’, Anthea said, urgently. ‘We found out that-‘

‘I know’, Mycroft said, and suddenly he felt numb. _Too late, too late._

‘Sir’, Anthea said, carefully. ‘It will be alright. I’m sure she is fine.’

Mycroft thought about the car that was supposed to maim him, the gunpowder on Anthea’s fingers, and the general mess and creases in both of their clothes. _Nothing was ever a coincidence._

Mycroft nodded, and felt something falter out of him, an echo of something he didn’t understand.

//

 

Moriarty stood up, looking down at her and huffed loudly.

‘Pfft, Molly’, he said, pulling at one of his ears, looking annoyed. ‘Someone would think you’re _unhappy_ to see me if you scream like that.’

Molly stared at him in horror, the scream that had pierced out of her mouth now echoing in her head and vibrating through her body.

Moriarty. Jim-Jim from IT. The first boyfriend she thought had liked her, really liked her, but had turned out to be like the rest but worse, a hundred times worse….a psychopath. A psychopath that wanted Sherlock dead, had caused him to fall, that started all of this. Started everything.

Everything had come back in a circle, and Molly couldn’t breathe. How-How?-

‘Molly’, Moriarty said, pulling a fake-sad expression. ‘I expected a better welcome than this. Don’t you appreciate all the trouble I went to, to get hold of you?’

Molly’s teeth chattered loudly, and not only from the ice-cold of the stone and cement room. The blood from her head was dripping down the side of her face, through her hair and ear.

‘H-How?’, Molly asked, her voice weak and shrill. She didn’t understand how this was happening, how she had ended up here, how this man- who should be dead, long dead- was here-

‘Wouldn’t you like to know’, Moriarty said gleefully, before his face changed, and suddenly looked serious. ‘Although I’m sure you do actually want to know. So you can tell _Sherlock.’_

Molly said nothing, breathing heavily, biting her tongue through the pain on her head.

‘But I can tell you now that isn’t going to happen, Molly’, he said, his voice deep and serious, and then lightening up again. ‘After all, we can’t have you blabbing to Sherlock. If I wanted Sherlock to know I’m alive now, I would have kidnapped him.’

Moriarty knelt back to her level, and suddenly manically smiled at her. Molly flinched, and tried to move backwards.

‘In all honesty’, Moriarty said, in a sing-song voice. ‘Kidnapping Sherlock would’ve been a lot more _fun_. But it would’ve been short-lived. He would try to get away. But you’re _smarter_ than Sherlock, aren’t you Molly?’

Molly said nothing, just starred at the man. She tried to school her expression to look blank, the way Anthea and Mycroft did so well, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t _him_ , wasn’t Mycroft, and she wanted to leave _now._ Molly breathed deeply, and knew Moriarty could hear how shaky her breaths were. He was still smiling at her, in a way that made her shiver.

‘I always knew you were special’, Moriarty said, quietly. ‘Before eveeeeeeerybody else. Because I’m the smartest of them all.’

Molly couldn’t take it anymore.

‘H-How’, Molly started, shivering and feeling almost blinded by the pain in her head. ‘How did you survive?’

The man in front of her blinked, his face illuminated by the harsh light of the lamp against the darkness behind him. Suddenly he groaned loudly and hit a wall with his fist, the sound racketing through the room. Molly bit back a scream, panic rising in her chest. She couldn’t- wouldn’t show it, she wouldn’t.

‘BORING!’, Moriarty screamed at her. ‘It’s obvious- an optical illusion, a well-placed blood pack- any moron could work it out! You’re asking all the wrong questions, all the boring questions!’

He started mimicking Molly’s voice.

‘How did you survive?’, he said to himself, and Molly stared. ‘How did you find me? What about Sherlock? Is he dead, is he going to _die?’_

Suddenly, Moriarty’s face was in front of Molly’s, and she screamed slightly at the sudden movement, the hot breath on her skin.

‘YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!’, he screamed, his voice tearing through Molly’s skin as she looked away. He grabbed her face, his thumb pressed hard against her cheek until it felt imprinted on bone. Molly felt as though she wasn’t really there, as though she was floating above her own body, watching the horror that had suddenly become her life. She felt as though she was in a dream, a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

Sweat trickled down her back- or maybe it was blood. Molly wasn’t sure anymore.

‘You’re all going to die’, Moriarty said, more quietly. ‘And I won’t win until I watch you all burn.’

He let go of her face, and the scowl that had been on his own face was replaced by a manic grin.

‘But first, you should meet my little friends,’ he said. ‘Although when I say little, I mean big. And when I say friends, they’re really just all Russians and Serbians with ego complexes. Details, details!’

Molly looked up at him, knowing her terror showed on her face. She couldn’t move.

‘Now’, Moriarty continued. ‘I can’t be sure- but have you met _Tom_?’

And just like that, Molly suddenly became aware that there were at least two other men in the room.

//

Mycroft breathes, and it’s dark outside. The police cars are lighting up the wet street as he walks into Molly’s road. He can see Molly’s flat above him and he stops.

He breathed. He couldn’t breathe.

Read: The arrival of police cars before himself means-

Mycroft thought. He found he can not think.

Anthea walked out from behind him, her shoes clicking loudly as she ran to the nearest police officers, and began to rapidly interrogate them. He watched as she flashed ID in their faces, watched as they close their mouths and then open them again, this time with informative information. He looked around him, and noted Sherlock hand-cuffed to the door of a police car.

Sherlock scowled.

‘They didn’t want me going through Molly’s flat. The idiots don’t realise I could do ten times the work in the time it takes them to wrap what’s going on around their tiny minds. Well?’, he said, his voice dripping in disdain. ‘Don’t just stand there!’

Mycroft simply looked at him, feeling numb. Sherlock looked back.

‘We’re too late’, Sherlock said, blankly. His voice is void of any feeling, any expression but curiosity as he looked on at Mycroft. ‘You’re too late.’

‘I don’t have time for your antics’, Mycroft found himself saying. His voice was rough from disuse in the last hour, his mind whirring but churning out nothing but acidic thoughts.

‘You can’t find her without me’, Sherlock said. ‘Your office has been compromised, and both you and Anthea have limited resources. You may have a team of honest agents, people loyal to you, but you can not trust anyone at the moment. Whoever-or whatever- has Molly is clever and has thought this out, for a very long time. Someone with a grudge, potentially against you, most likely against both of us. Someone with inside help and knowledge, as to get past your surveillance. It has been done before, and you know it. You’re not as invincible as you thought.’

Sherlock’s worded ricocheted through Mycroft’s mind, the cutting edges of his sentences tearing through what felt like an empty room that had once occupied his thoughts. He couldn’t think.

‘Molly is innocent. You are not. This is your fault’, Sherlock bit out, and then looked down.  ‘Possibly also my fault.’

Mycroft looked at him, and then pulled out a slim tie pin, and began to unpick the lock on the handcuffs around Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock was looking at him as he did this, Mycroft knew, and found he did not care.

‘You care’, Sherlock said, his voice sounding incredulous- but also as though he had known all along.

‘I made a mistake,’ Mycroft said, simply, honestly. He remembered Bolivia, the burning buildings and screams. ‘I want to fix it.’

_Why can’t you love me like that?_

Molly’s words, her agonised voice, curled through Mycroft’s head, ringing in his ears. When he looked up, Sherlock was still looking at him.

‘She’s my friend’, Sherlock said, suddenly. ‘And as much as I hate saying this, we’re going to have to cooperate. There’s legwork involved.’

‘I am not afraid of legwork’, Mycroft said, blankly.

‘Sir’.

Mycroft turned around to see Anthea, her dress more creased than before, her hair falling out of its elaborate up-do, her eye make up slightly smudged.

In her hand was a bloodied vest. Molly’s night vest.

Sherlock was saying something, but Mycroft could not hear.

//

 

Molly felt like crying, but she wouldn’t let them win.

‘Tom?’, She said, trying to not show that she cared. But she did, she really did. Even if, if at the end Tom wasn’t really where her heart was- because she knew where (and who) it has really been with now, she would admit it- she had cared for him, maybe even loved him. And now it had happened again, another person using her for…for what? _Sherlock?_

Tom looked down at her, his face different somehow. His expression moved from blankness to plain, obvious disgust.

‘I have to say’, Tom said. ‘I am rather glad our charade is over. I was getting tired.’

‘Nonsense!’, Moriarty said. ‘You can’t get bored of _Molly.’_

Moriarty’s voice was light- but sinister somehow, threatening as a dagger against a throat. Tom’s eyes flickered to his leader’s and then back to Molly. His expression was blank again, smooth as an unpainted canvas.

‘No’, he said, dully. ‘Of course not.’

‘Tom is a new recruit’, Moriarty told her, as though he was introducing her to his pet dog. ‘He’s been veeeeery useful.’

Molly jumped as she heard footsteps coming from her side, and nearly screamed out loud again when she saw who it was.

‘Oh!’, Moriarty said. ‘I _know you’ve_ met Stephan Baskov. Say hello!’

Molly remembered the man before her, his thick hands wrapped tightly around her throat so long ago, before she had even really met Mycroft. She remembered him suffocating the life around of her, the feeling of drifting out of your own body, out of your own life.

She pushed back harder against the wall, and Baskov grinned but said nothing.

‘Baskov here is my right hand man after Seb’, Moriarty said, matter-of-factly. ‘Seb isn’t here I’m afraid, so you haven’t met all my friends- but don’t worry, I have a lot of _those_ now. Now I come to think of it, someone is missing- where is she?’

Moriarty pointed his question at Tom, his voice deadly as a snake. Tom looked at Moriarty with no expression whatsoever.

‘WHERE IS SHE?’, Moriarty yelled.

‘She’s coming’, Tom said.

Moriarty considered him for a moment.

‘If you or she ruin any of my plans’, Moriarty said, with an even voice. ‘Just remember that I can _gut_ you and slice _you into little teeny pieces_ and then _kill you_.’

Molly thought about Sherlock in her flat, obviously injured, ages ago, talking about fighting Moriarty’s network, just as the man turned back to her.

‘You don’t seriously think Sherlock managed to get all my friends, do you?’, Moriarty asked her, putting on a voice of fake-shock, his eyes wide. ‘Sherlock isn’t THAT good.’

‘W-What do you want?’, Molly said, as loudly as she could bear, biting the skin of her lip to fight the pain. ‘Why-Why are you so interested in Sherlock?’

Moriarty slapped his hands together in glee, and Tom looked disgusted. Baskov hung back in the background, watching Molly with a stare that felt like something was crawling up her back, through her skin.

 _Hungrily,_ Molly thought, with a terror that she didn’t know she could feel. _He’s looking at me like I’m food._

‘Good old Molly’, Moriarty carried on. ‘Always thinking about others and _never ever_ about herself. Why do you care about Sherlock so much, Molly? Do you loooooooove him?’

Tom snorted from his corner, and Moriarty looked at him, his face suddenly murderous. And then, as quick as it had appeared, it was gone again. Molly gulped hard, feeling as though she was melded to the wall.

‘You know, I never intended Sherlock to die’, Moriarty said, mostly to himself as he paced in front of Molly. He ignored Baskov and Tom as he talked. ‘I always expected Mycroft to help out somehow, and of course – I was right. I’m aaaaaalways right. But imagine my surprise, Molly, when you got involved.’

He was back in her face again, looking at her with curious eyes as Molly tried to look away.

‘W-What do you want?’, Molly mustered, breathing hard.

‘I knew you were special’, Moriarty said softly, his breath blowing across her face like an unwanted caress. ‘I knew you were _something._ And I was right. I was _ecstatic.’_

Molly remembered the day she met Mycroft- really met him- at Sherlock’s funeral. She remembered the way he had looked at her then, through the misery and gloom, and the way she couldn’t breathe because she knew he had _seen._

She had to get out.

‘You’re lying’, Molly said. ‘You never saw me. Like everyone else. What is-is it that you want?’

Moriarty went from surprised to furious in seconds. Suddenly, he grabbed Molly’s arm, and yanked hard, pulling her upright. White hot pain filled her sides, her head and her joined wrists as Moriarty’s arms looped around her waist, pulling her to him. His face was close- too close, their bodies aligned as her thin gown came into contact with expensive suit jacket, and Molly yelled out in sheer panic.

‘Why, Molly’, Moriarty said, in a voice of someone telling a very obvious truth, his accent thick. ‘All I want is you. And we’re going to have _so much fun._ ’

She saw Moriarty look past at her at someone behind her and nod slightly, before there was blood in her mouth and everything went black again.

//

Silence. The silence inside his head was screeching, piercing at a decibel high enough to make Mycroft’s ears bleed.

The silence was deafening.

 Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock’s chair in Sherlock’s flat. Above him, Sherlock himself and Anthea appeared to be in an incessant argument- Mycroft was listening, retaining, but not really acknowledging any of the words as anything other than an assemble of letters arranged into strings of sentences.

Mycroft stared at the piece of clothing in his hand, the blood dried and cracked on a spot near the neckline, dark enough to cover the naïve little dot pattern underneath. The vest smelled of blood, a low, very slight smell of iron, masked by a cinnamon and honey scent that Mycroft knew Molly wore and loved. Mycroft hit-consumed- by the need to hold the small, thin cloth to his face, to burrow himself in it.

‘We need to lay off the police- that can be easily done- as their involvement only slows down the process’, Anthea was saying loudly. ‘We both know the matter is above the level of Scotland Yard as it is’.

‘- Your current situation makes your sources useless’, Sherlock said. ‘I need unlimited access to Molly’s flat, to the scene of the crime, and I also need to go to St Bart’s, to validate the blood on that shirt-‘

‘ _The scene of the crime?_ This is Molly, Sherlock. Our friend. She’s in trouble, and you’re still fussing about the fact they kicked you out of the flat?’, Anthea was yelling back. ‘We need to confirm the identity of the man that crashed Mycroft’s car, and also the woman in Mycroft’s office, you can’t tell me that’s a coincidence-‘

‘-My homeless network are on the lookout for Tom, other than that I can’t do my _work_ unless I can get into Molly’s flat!’, Sherlock said, angrily. ‘We’re wasting time-‘

‘-Which is exactly why I’m saying to call off the police!’ Anthea retaliated. ‘It’s like you can’t hear the words of anyone else other than the one’s coming out of your own mouth-‘

Mycroft had not heard Anthea speak so much since the day he had met her. He had also never heard her this angry, or worried.

‘I need Lestrade!’, Sherlock said. ‘Unfortunately, while Scotland Yard is mostly useless and I would agree with you that their involvement is unnecessary, but since Mycroft is being as useful as an over-fed slug, I need to collect data somehow, and the only way is the police!’

‘He’s in shock, Sherlock’, Anthea said, sounding disgusted. ‘Surely you can’t be so _callous_ as to not realise that Mycroft cares about Molly. What would you do if John had been kidnapped?’

_Caring. Kidnapped._

_Why am I not good enough, Mycroft?_

‘Mycroft is never shocked by anything’, Sherlock said, with gritted teeth. ‘And this has NOTHING to do with John-‘

‘You act like you’re better than Mycroft just because you act like you feel nothing. You pretend you’re a sociopath’, Anthea was tearing out. ‘You’re the furthest thing from a sociopath I know- you both _feel entirely too_ much. The reality is that you’re both the most emotional people I know-‘

_How can you be so scared of the people that love you?_

‘ENOUGH!’ Mycroft bellowed, his own voice ringing in his ears.

Sherlock and Anthea both fell silent, the room eerily quiet with only the sound of the traffic outside Baker Street now in the room.

‘I can confirm this is Molly’s blood’, Mycroft said. ‘No need to waste time with blood work.’

‘You can hardly tell by just sniffing it’, Sherlock said, sounding annoyed. Mycroft looked at him.

‘But I can’, Mycroft said, matter-of-factly. ‘Molly is slightly anaemic. Despite the….copious….amount of blood on the shirt, the scent of iron is rather faint. She has a habit of refraining from eating when she works and has been rather stressed the last couple of months, hence the colour of the blood and lack of glucose. She was hypoglycaemic when she was….taken.’

Mycroft was still staring at the vest. The thoughts in his head were….worrying him because they weren’t what they should be. He should be calculating, scheming, deducing, as Sherlock would say. He should look at the shirt and _click_ instead all he could think about was that Molly was hurt somewhere, hungry. And in danger.

He closes his eyes and sees an autopsy table. Molly was lying on it. Her skin was pale, the colour of white ash and snow, her lips and eyes muted and unmoving.

Mycroft jerked, as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Anthea staring at him. Sherlock was now sitting on the table in front of Mycroft, staring at his elder brother like he was an unexamined corpse.

‘Now is not the time to fall apart, Mycroft’, Anthea said. ‘You have dealt with worse.’

But he had never dealt with a case like this before. Not one where he felt this invested in the outcome- so much so that it was crippling him-

‘Mycroft’.

Sherlock’s voice was soft, unlike any tone he had used when speaking to Mycroft since they were young, and did not know better.

‘I can solve this puzzle and find Molly on my own, you know’, Sherlock said, calmly, crossing a leg over the other leg and leaning down to steeple his fingers under his chin and look directly at Mycroft.

Mycroft’s eyes flickered over Sherlock’s face until he knew. _A chess-piece. A pawn._

‘Because I’m smarter’, Sherlock continued. ‘And because Mummy _always_ loved me best.’

Mycroft closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Sherlock and Anthea were gone and he was standing in the middle of the room.

Molly was standing in front of him, like a ghost.

//

Molly woke up with a jerk, and screamed as ice-cold water was thrown over, tearing through her like tiny sharp knives. She choked on the water and her own spit, and when she coughed, a pool of blood came out of her mouth. She looked ahead of her, and found herself staring at panel lighting and clinic-white ceiling.

Electricity was pouring through her body as her muscles screamed with pain. Molly was shaking, and not just because it was cold. Her head was felt numb and ached at the same time, and she wanted to vomit- she would vomit.

‘WAKEY WAKEY!’, Moriarty yelled. ‘Molly, you don’t half sleep, do you? Tom didn’t knock you out _that_ hard, did he? Mind you, if I let Stephan here do it, you’d be dead.’

‘Where am I?’, Molly croaked, and pulled her arms. Only then did she realise that she was horizontal and lying on something hard.

‘An old place of mine’, Moriarty said, conversationally. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’

The room was bright white, like a hospital, but empty of anything other than herself and-and-

‘What am I lying on?’, Molly said, her voice high and painful. ‘I w-want- let me go!’

She was lying on an autopsy table- she was- she didn’t _understand-_

‘Surely you must recognise an autopsy table, Molly’, Moriarty said. ‘I know you have seen one. You work with them, DUMBO!’

The last word was spoken louder and deeper than the rest, and was accompanied by a pressure to her head that nearly made her cry out. Molly felt like she couldn’t see anymore, her head was hurting so bad, she was aching all over. She felt weak and nauseous but unable to do anything but retch.

Molly breathed, her mind still panicking, screaming shrilly and not making any sense.

‘Why do you want me?’, Molly finally said, the words cutting into her throat. ‘W-Why?’

Moriarty looked pleased at her question.

‘Finally!’, he sang. ‘The right question! Why Molly, I’ve already said. _You’re special.’_

Molly struggled against the chains across her arms, tying her to the table. She wriggled her feet and realised they were tied as well. She was still wearing the same grubby hospital gown, which looked grey now against the white of the room.

‘You know, Molly’, Moriarty carried on, his voice conversational. ‘I had Sherlock tied up with the same chains on your hands now. Recycling is good for the environment, you see.’

Molly imagined the masses of people that Moriarty must have had killed, the bloodshed, the pain.

‘Does that make you feel closer to Sherlock?’, he asked, leaning against the side of her face. Molly forced herself to keep looking at the lights above her head, imagining it falling on her, ending everything. ‘Does it?’

She thought of Mycroft, and wondered if he had noticed she was gone. If he cared.

//

Mycroft breathed, and tried to keep his face blank. But he thought back, back to that day when he first met Molly, across Irene Adler’s body; he remembered how expressive her eyes were, the way she breathed in hard when they had locked eyes during Sherlock’s funeral.

Molly had looked this pale, then, ill and miserable. In his mind palace, Molly was dying, slowly and all alone.

‘Help me’, mind-Molly said, and Mycroft felt paralysed, broken, and hoped it didn’t show on his face, even in this world were Molly wasn’t real.

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, his voice rough with words he didn’t know to say. He reached out.

Mycroft blinked, and Molly had been replaced by Sherlock, his coat swishing around the both of them. Sherlock looked taller somehow, and Mycroft moved away.

‘Pathetic’, Sherlock said, his voice full of disgust and spite. ‘Too late, dear brother, she’s dead.’

Mycroft felt as though he was drowning- in what, he didn’t know.

//

‘They didn’t realise that I was behind Sherlock’s capture in Serbia, you know’, Moriarty said into her ear, and Molly felt like crying. ‘I sort of hoped they would catch on. Him and Mycroft. But they never did. Shame.’

Molly flinched at Mycroft’s name, and Moriarty looked at her curiously, but said nothing. She heard shuffling around her, and knew Tom and Baskov were there too. She couldn’t look at Tom, the man she thought she was going to marry, yet she wasn’t as angry at him as she should be. Maybe it was because she was tired, scared and in pain. Or maybe she was _tired, really tired_ , of being used.

‘They’ll find me’, Molly said, her voice still hurting. ‘They-They will.’

The room stilled, and then a laugh filled the room, high and raucous.

‘REALLY?’, Moriarty said. ‘You really _believe_ that? Oh, look at that- you actually _do.’_

Molly stayed silent and Moriarty laughed, his voice surrounding her, suffocating her.

‘Oh, Molly’, Moriarty said. ‘I said I think you’re special, not that _they_ do. Don’t you get it?’

Moriarty moved to her other side, her other ear.

‘Sherlock and Mycroft are just as bad as me, worse’, he hissed loudly, spitting in her ear. He pulled her hair back, eliciting a wave of pain in Molly’s head, moving the strands further away from her ear as though he wanted her to hear him better. ‘You think I’ve killed a lot of people? Wait until you hear Mycroft’s number. He’s worse, he’s _worse_.’

Molly said nothing, breathing hard to stop herself from crying, from hearing Tom and Baskov walking around her, from hearing Moriarty’s breath in her ear.

‘You’re just one more body-bag to them, Molly’, Moriarty said. ‘That’s all.’

//

‘Caring is not an advantage’, Mind-Sherlock said, mimicking Mycroft’s voice. ‘That’s what you told me. That’s _what you always told me.’_

Mycroft looked at his baby brother, and felt failure seep through his skin like water. He had….he had failed before, but never like this. He would _not_ feel this, because he refused to feel like a failure. He had been so successful in his field, his country-

‘And what does it matter if you can’t succeed in the things that matter?’, Mind-Sherlock interjected. ‘ What is power and money when you can’t save your mind from yourself?’

Mycroft said nothing, felt nothing but emptiness, a cavern where his lungs and heart should be.

‘There’s a reason why it’s said that when you’re in love, that you are falling’, Sherlock said, walking closer to Mycroft, until he was right there, nose to nose. ‘After all, falling is ever so close to failing. And in the end this is just failing. And now Molly will die-‘

‘SHUT UP!’, Mycroft yelled, his arms flaring out in mind-Sherlock’s direction, missing him by inches. Mycroft felt the wind push out of his lungs. He had never tried to strike Sherlock before, not even in his own mind, in the imaginary-

‘Shut up this instant’, Mycroft finished, flatly. Sherlock looked at him blankly, unsurprised and unconcerned.

‘What have you really achieved, brother?’, Sherlock said, sneering. Mycroft stared Sherlock down.

‘I saved you from yourself’, Mycroft said, defiantly. ‘I saved you during your worst time. I did my duty.’

‘But did you really?’, Sherlock asked. Suddenly, the room changed, and Mycroft breathed hard as they found themselves in an autopsy room, grey slates surrounding them like a closed box.

Mind-Sherlock pulled on a table, and there lay Molly, rigid and pale- dead. Mycroft tried not to react, but he could not think, _he could not think._

‘I do not wish to be here’, Mycroft told mind-Sherlock. ‘This will not help my state of mind’.

Mind-Sherlock smirked at him, his eyes screwed up in mirth. Mycroft breathed in, and Sherlock changed, replaced by…..a younger Sherlock.

‘I thought your state of mind was the best in the world, Mycroft’, Mind-Sherlock said. He leaned against the table holding Molly, his hair now long and greasy, his skin as pale as Molly’s. He wore an over-sized dark sweater with the sleeves rolled up, and Mycroft saw track marks along his arms, clear as day.  Sherlock looked up at him, his face emaciated and shrunken.

‘Your mind is infinitely better than mine’, Sherlock said, pulling out a needle. ‘Is it not?’

Mycroft watched as Sherlock….up, and Mycroft moved to grab him, only for Sherlock to dodge him, forcing Mycroft to fall towards Molly’s body. He found himself looking down at her, touching her, her unmoving face. Mycroft froze.

‘Did you really save me though?’, Sherlock said, from behind him. ‘Molly looked so very peaceful. Would death have not been more preferable for me? You knew I struggled with my mind- our mindset- and surely letting me overdose would have been kinder?’

‘No’, Mycroft tore out. ‘You’re my brother. You needed to survive.’

‘ _You_ needed me to survive’, Sherlock said. ‘You. If nothing else, Mycroft. You are a selfish man. That is why you do not deserve Molly, and you certainly won’t save her. She is in this situation because you let her be, in your selfishness.’

‘No’, Mycroft said, his voice croaking. He looked down at Molly, her iced eyelids and cheekbones. He pulled himself up, looking back at Mind-Sherlock. He looked even more sickly than before, and was now wearing a hospital gown.

‘I saved you because you are better than you believe yourself to be’, Mycroft said. ‘There are so few that think like that, like us, I could not- I would not- allow you to waste yourself.’

Sherlock’s face flickered, momentarily looking sad.

‘And that’s why?’, Sherlock said. Mycroft moved towards him, and Sherlock disappeared.

The room also changed, and they were back at Baker’s street, in Sherlock’s flat. Real-Anthea and Sherlock were frozen in their spots besides Sherlock’s chair and the table in front of it. Mycroft found himself sitting in Sherlock’s chair, and when he stood up, the real him stayed sitting in the chair, frozen.

Standing on the table, next to wear real-Sherlock was sitting, frozen, in his characteristic pose, was a much younger Sherlock, his hair curlier than ever and wearing a school uniform.

‘I didn’t want you to save me’, whined Mind-baby Sherlock, stamping his foot. ‘Why don’t you understand?’

‘Then what would you have me do?’, Mycroft said, kneeling down to his brother’s level, frustrated. ‘What would you have me do for Molly?’

‘You’re thinking about yourself’, little Sherlock said. ‘You’ve always been selfish like that. Think about Molly.’

‘I am trying!’, Mycroft said, frustrated, slamming his hands on the table next to frozen Sherlock. He felt tired.

‘Think about me, Mycroft’, little Sherlock said. ‘That’s all I wanted. I wanted you to understand’.

‘I do understand you’, Mycroft said. ‘We have similar minds.’

‘But we don’t!’, little Sherlock said, stamping his foot again, tears in his eyes. ‘Nobody thinks like you, Mycroft! Nobody! Not me, and definitely not Molly!’

Mycroft said nothing, frustration bubbling in his veins.

‘Caring is not an advantage’, little Sherlock recited. ‘Caring is not-‘

Baby Sherlock changed into adult Sherlock, the identical twin of the one frozen on the table. Mind-Sherlock sat down in an identical position, and then grabbed Mycroft’s tie.

‘-Is not an advantage’, he finished. ‘Think, you fool. When did you get this idiotic?’

Mycroft rubbed his eyes, and he was drowning again, this time in Sherlock’s taunts.

//

Molly couldn’t help it. All the pain and hurt- she couldn’t figure out what was worse; the pain of her body or the pain in her mind. She tried to tell herself that Jim-Moriarty- was lying, he was, he was, but even the very thought sounded fake. The truth was that she never, _ever_ knew if she meant anything- to Mycroft, to Anthea, to Sherlock, to anyone. She was another pawn in a game of chess, to be used and put away in a box when it was all finished.

‘Don’t cry! You’re special to me’, Moriarty said. ‘I want to know aaaaalllllll about you, Molly Hooper. You’re interesting to _me._ ’

‘Let me go’, Molly said, weakly, and without resistance.

‘Oh come on, you can try harder than that’, Moriarty said. ‘Besides- don’t you want to know what I have planned for your little gang of detectives? Oh the _things_ I have planned for the Holmes boys. _I’m so excited.’_

 _‘_ They will beat you’, Molly said quietly. She looked up fast enough to see Moriarty’s murderous expression before her vision blanked out temporarily and her eyes exploded with pain.

‘BASKOV!’, Moriarty screamed. ‘I told you we don’t want her dead yet! CONTROL YOURSELF!’

‘But sir, what’s the use in waiting this long-‘, Baskov said, above Molly’s head, above the pain. Molly gasped as she felt blood on her tongue again, and oxygen reaching her mouth in spurts.

‘We are not waiting for anything!’, Moriarty said. ‘Shut up and set up the drip like I told you to. One more question and I will kill you in your sleep.’

He turned back to Molly, and this time, he looked serious and slightly bored.

‘Molly, this crush on Sherlock is seriously getting old’, Moriarty moaned. ‘WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?’

Molly couldn’t flinch anymore.

 

//

‘You’re going to fail’, Mind-Sherlock said. ‘You’re going to fail and Molly will die because of you. Because you can’t _think._ Love is truly a defect.’

‘I am not in love’, Mycroft said, and Sherlock let out a laugh.

‘Brother’, Sherlock said. ‘No one knows me like I do. And I know you will fail.’

‘No’, Mycroft said.

‘Fail’, Mind-Sherlock said.

Mycroft said nothing. Mind-Sherlock changed, and Mycroft found himself looking at his mother.

‘I never thought I’d see the day you would fail, Mikey’, mummy said, her face disappointed and downcast. She sighed. ‘I really should have known.’

Mummy turned into Sherlock again.

‘A failure’, Sherlock supplied.

Mind-Sherlock was replaced by Anthea.

‘All this time’, she said. ‘I thought you could be….better. But you’re just a failure.’

Mind-Anthea turned back into Sherlock.

‘A failure, brother’, Sherlock said, blankly.

Mind Sherlock turned into Moriarty, who immediately jumped up right into Mycroft’s face.

‘YOU FAILED!’, Moriarty said, laughing manically. ‘Maybe you should join me and Molly , Ice Man. It is awful quiet down here, but Molly keeps be company-‘

‘NO!’, Mycroft yelled, and slammed Moriarty against a wall. ‘NO!’

Mycroft breathed in hard and fell to his knees. When he looked up, he was alone.

//

 

‘Sherlock has no idea I’m _alive_ ’, Moriarty said. ‘I’m already ahead of him in everything. And if you’re missing- well, I’m sure Sherlock will notice _eventually.’_

Molly felt tears dripping down the sides of her face. She pretended she couldn’t feel them, couldn’t feel the throbbing of her body.

‘But I find you interesting- what kind of person helps out someone like Sherlock?’, Moriarty said curiously. ‘Who puts their life on the line like that? Molly Hooper, _I really misjudged you_. And guess what? I’m going to correct that now.’

Molly moved her head to look at Moriarty, only to see Tom instead, plunging a needle into her arm. Molly yelled out, and Tom held her arm more forcefully, imprinting his hand on her skin. He looked at her carefully, blankly, and she wondered what she had seen in him, how she could have believed she could love him.

‘We’re going to do a little experiment’, Moriarty’s voice said , from somewhere above Molly. ‘We’re going to find out exactly how much you loooooooove Sherlock.’

Molly gasped out loud as she struggled against the needle, saw the tubing it was connected to, the drop above her head.

‘This isn’t going to hurt a bit’, Moriarty said, before his voice became deep and serious again. ‘I promise.’

//

Mycroft had never been alone in his mind palace before. He looked at his frozen self on the chair, with Anthea and Sherlock, and he breathed.

He was alone.

_How can you be so scared of the people that love you?_

‘Mycroft’.

_I was so lonely, that’s why-_

‘Mycroft’.

_Why can’t you love me like that?_

_‘_ Mycroft’.

Mycroft jerked at his name, and looked up from where he sat on the floor, where Moriarty had been seconds before.

Molly sat in front of him, her legs crossed like a school-child- healthy, smiling, _alive._

‘Hello’, she said nervously. ‘I thought- you were alone in your mind and- well, my dad always used to say people turn into their worst when they’re alone-‘

‘Molly’, Mycroft interrupted. ‘What if I can’t find you?’

The words hung in the air, more honest and true than anything Mycroft had ever said. Molly smiled at him, slightly. She held out her hand, and Mycroft, after a second, took it, curiously, tiredly.

‘We’ve been fighting this for so long’, Molly said, playing with the gold ring he always wore. Then she held his hand with both of hers, and kissed his palm.

Mycroft watched her lips, plump and pink, full of colour.

‘I was taught that one ought to fight something, in order to achieve one’s goal’, Mycroft said. ‘Only then do you get it.’

Molly smiled.

‘Then fight with me’, Molly said. ‘We’re on the same side. On the side of the _angels.’_

Mycroft frowned.

‘Moriarty said those same words’, he said slowly. ‘To Sherlock. Before he fell.’

‘Because Sherlock was fighting for the city he loved’, Molly said, shrugging. ‘We all love something, no matter what. Maybe-Maybe love is a disadvantage but we all have something, even if its little loves, you know- a place, a food, a partner, a friend-‘

‘A friend’, Mycroft said. Suddenly everything was dark and empty, but bright and clear. Molly smiled on at him.

‘You are beautiful’, Mycroft said, truthfully. ‘I wish I had told you that before.’

‘Tell me when you find me’, Molly whispered, and leaned in to kiss Mycroft-

//

Mycroft blinked hard, and breathed deeply.

Sherlock was sitting in front of him, legs crossed, hands steepled.

‘Well?’, Sherlock said, sounding bored.

Mycroft looked at his brother, his mind surging, pulsing with ideas. The cogs were oiled, turning at an alarming pace.

‘I always win’, Mycroft said, his voice deep and firm.

Sherlock looked at him for a beat, carefully and quietly. Then he sat up, flaring his legs out like a windmill as he did so.

‘I want to go back to Molly’s flat’, Sherlock announced. ‘While you were having internal equivalent of which ever war we’re on, I came up with a line of inquiry.’

‘I have a better idea’, Mycroft said. Sherlock looked at him, defiantly.

‘The game is on, brother’, Sherlock said. ‘I need your assistant’.

Mycroft thought for a second.

‘I trust I can make use of some of your….resources?’, Mycroft asked, pressed down his tie and shirt. He had a part to play.

Sherlock looked pained.

‘Fine’, Sherlock said. ‘I want unlimited access to CCTV and Molly’s flat.’

‘Wait a second!’, Anthea jumped in. ‘I will not-‘

Mycroft looked at her deeply, his expression full of a serenity he didn’t feel.

‘Molly’, Mycroft said, quietly. Anthea’s jaw jumped, but she nodded.

‘I have a few errands to run’, Mycroft said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me’.

Mycroft walked down the stairs of the flat and out of the building. He knew Sherlock was watching him through the window, and Mycroft walked down the street, turning a corner. He looked around for a while, staring at his surroundings.

_We all have something, even if its little loves, you know-_

In the corner of Mycroft’s eye, he saw a boy shuffle. Mycroft looked at him.

‘You’, Mycroft called. ‘Come here’.

The boy stared.

 **Read:** Hungry- homeless. Worn clothes- no money, shares the little he has with some other fellow homeless people- a network.  Yes- a drug addict. Sherlock’s so-called homeless network.

‘I ain’t done nothing’, the boy said.

‘I did not say you did’, Mycroft said. ‘I am an acquaintance of Sherlock’s’

‘Don’t lie to me’, the boy said. ‘You’re his brother, ain’t you?’

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. _Interesting._

‘Yes’, Mycroft said. ‘I have a job for you.’

//

An hour later, Mycroft sat in a dark  abandoned basement car park. The air was cold, Mycroft’s breathes puffing around him like cigarette smoke. He sat on a chair with his legs crossed, his clothes as uncreased as they could be. He sat calmly as he watched the boy drag an unconscious woman in front of him and tie her hands behind her back.

 **Read:** she was knocked out with chloroform, a mild but effective dose. Showed resistance on capture. Not unusual, though meant that Mycroft may need to be….forceful, when she woke up. Nothing Mycroft was not capable of.

Mycroft thought of Molly, her anaemic blood. He thought of the thousands he has indirectly hurt or killed, the people he had stepped on.

This was what he did best.

The woman was coming around, her eyes hazy.

‘Wha-‘ she said, and sat up, wincing as she did. ‘Where-Where am I?’

Mycroft put on his mask, and did not think of Molly. He smiled a fake smile.

‘Ah’, Mycroft said, genially. ‘Laura. You work at the reception of St Bart’s where Molly works. I believe we have much to… _discuss.’_

 

 

**TBC.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all, folks! I don’t know what I thought of this chapter after I wrote it, so please let me know what you think! I was terrified of the characterization in this chapter- I struggled A LOT with Mycroft and Moriarty. My beta asked me if all hospital gowns in the UK have polka dots on them, when she read this- to those who are interested: the ones I have worn in the past have, but I can’t speak for all hospitals. I’m going to repeat myself and say the next chapter is more….triggery, I guess, so if any of this made you uncomfortable, please be aware. I feel like I’m over exaggerating, but I’d rather over-do it than under-do it and upset someone. This was the beginning of the 2-part ‘peak’ of the story.  
> EDIT: A03 won't let me add this chapter as '20a' and insists its just 20. As a result, this story now has 24 chapters. I'm sorry guys. This is the last chapter addition.  
> EDIT 2: Remember, guys, this follows series 3 Sherlock canon, as much as a mollcroft fic can. And we all know how series 3 goes. 
> 
> Anyways, comments are seriously important at this stage, as this plot is rather difficult to write. Let me know what you thought.  
> Also, shameless plug- you like updates, want prompts, or are interested in my other stories, please add me on Tumblr: bloglavictoire.tumblr.com.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PodFic] Hidden in Plain Sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1414795) by [WinterKoala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterKoala/pseuds/WinterKoala)




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